The Hope of Fantasy

To build further upon what I explored in "Is Fiction Fake" and shared in "Art is the grandchild of God", here in a great artist’s words is a literary vision framing the hope of Fantasy:

“But the ‘consolation’ of fairy-stories [Fantasy] has another aspect than the imaginative satisfaction of ancient desires [for example, the desire to visit, free as a fish, the deep sea; or the longing for the noiseless, gracious, economical flight of a bird . . . the desire to converse with other living things . . . the Escape from Death]. Far more important is the Consolation of the Happy Ending. . . . [Or more precisely] the eucatastrophic tale [which] is the true form of fairy-tale, and its highest function.

“The consolation of fairy-stories, the joy of the happy ending: or more correctly of the good catastrophe, the sudden joyous ‘turn’ (for there is no true end to any fairy-tale): this joy, which is one of the things which fairy-stories can produce supremely well, is not essentially ‘escapist’, nor ‘fugitive’. . . . It does not deny the existence of decatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief. . . .

“In such stories when the sudden ‘turn’ comes we get a piercing glimpse of joy, and heart’s desire, that for a moment passes outside the frame, rends indeed the very web of story, and lets a gleam come through. . . .

“The peculiar quality of the ‘joy’ in successful Fantasy can thus be explained as a sudden glimpse of the underlying reality or truth. . . . in the ‘eucatastrophe’ we see in a brief vision that the answer [to the question, ‘Is it true?’] may be greater [than merely being true in that secondary fairy-story world]—it may be a far-off gleam or echo of evangelium in the real world. . . .

“The Gospels contain a fairy story, or a story of a larger kind which embraces all the essence of fairy-stories. They contain many marvels—peculiarly artistic, beautiful, and moving: ‘mythical’ in their perfect, self-contained significance; and among the marvels is the greatest and most complete conceivable eucatastrophe. But this story has entered History and the primary world; the desire and aspiration of sub-creation has been raised to the fulfillment of Creation.

"The Birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of Man’s history. The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation. This story begins and ends in joy. It has pre-eminently the ‘inner consistency of reality’. There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many skeptical men have accepted as true on its own merits. For the Art of it has the supremely convincing tone of Primary Art, that is, of Creation. To reject it leads either to sadness or to wrath. . . .

“The Evangelium has not abrogated legends; it has hallowed them, especially the ‘happy ending’. The Christian has still to work, with mind as well as body, to suffer, hope, and die; but he may now perceive that all his bents and faculties have a purpose, which can be redeemed. So great is the bounty with which he has been treated that he may now, perhaps, fairly dare to guess that in Fantasy he may actually assist in the effoliation and multiple enrichment of creation. All tales may come true; and yet, at the last, redeemed, they may be as like and as unlike the forms that we give them as Man, finally redeemed, will be like and unlike the fallen that we know.”

- J.R.R. Tolkien
From his essay, "On Fairy-Stories" (originally shared as a lecture in 1939), as published in The Monsters and the Critics 

Not to Walk Alone, Part 4

Opportunities

The following is the final part in a series about my recent experience on the PCT (Pacific Crest Trail). Read Part 1, and Part 2, and Part 3. Each part has been adapted from journal entries written in the wild. The date and time listed are when the journal entry was originally written.

11 June, 2018: Monday
21:52—Silverwood Lake, “Bikers” Campground [PCT Mile 328.7 (Mileage Today: 25.75)]

Click Map to Enlarge

I am utterly spent. I pushed on farther than planned due to the allure of soaking in the lake and enjoying fellow hiker company. Alas, neither of these came to be, but I appreciate the faucets and bathrooms here. The Philadelphia Boys pushed me and I pushed them: Chris “Crash”, Noah “Drop Zone”, and Colin.

But I will write more tomorrow. I have only 13 miles of this PCT section left, which includes some climbing. I pray my body is restored enough tonight to complete the section in good time, but mostly to catch up with the Boys. In the meantime, goodnight.

13 June, 2018: Wednesday
7:23—Yucaipa

“God, the LORD, is my strength; he makes my feet like the deer’s; he makes me tread on my high places” (Habakkuk 3:19).

10:01—(same location)

Monday, I rose at about 6:00, noting how the sun was progressively lighting the western hills. I prefer packing up camp and completing my routine in the cool of the shade when the temperature is pleasant, only beginning to hint of the heat to come.

Ready to traverse the boulder field and hike back up to the PCT from my Deep Creek camp, I only took a few steps before feeling water spilling from the base of my pack. Realizing that it must be my hydration bladder (Note: I keep it in a pouch fashioned inside the back of my pack so that the drinking hose has easy access through a slot to attach to my shoulder strap). A lot of leakage was occurring, so I cursed and quickly removed my pack to salvage the situation. The problem was that the hose joint at the base of the bladder had been pulled out. I lost over half a liter of water. Fortunately, some water was left and the hose could be fit back into place, seemingly secure; though I am now more mindful of how I place the bladder in the pouch.

Overall, I didn’t mind having a damp butt, for the day would be sunny and dry. Concerned about my down feather sleeping bag being soaked, I placed my mini towel inside along the bottom of my pack beside the bag to absorb the moisture. I also took my [useless] pillow out along with my wind jacket (which I never used) and strapped them to the outside of my pack to dry. All this ultimately proved effective.

Having reached the PCT, while I made some final pack adjustments, a couple hikers passed by and waved knowingly. I did not recognize them, but later realized that they were the Philly Boys. Not long after I started hiking, Crash passed me at a brisk pace to catch up with them (having apparently made a pit stop).

The next four miles were leisurely with countless canyon views of rugged Deep Creek. I passed the German hiker I’d met days earlier at the Holcomb Creek campsite. He was struggling to break in some new hiking boots. His partner, Celine (from Switzerland), was waiting for him not far down the path.

I wanted to stop at the much-talked about Deep Creek Hot Springs. Arriving, a number of people were lounging about. The beach looked in a bit of disarray, much likely contributed to by weekenders or tourists who walk in from a nearby dirt road, but don’t pack out their garbage. There are some locals, however, including rangers, who do their best to keep it clean. Still, it’s discouraging how trashed some natural sights can get when people don’t care about those coming after them. The rangers have their hands full. Camping is technically not permitted, but some get away with it. PCT hikers generally try to honor the Leave No Trace philosophy, so are allegedly given greater leniency in terms of being allowed to camp at the Hot Springs. I probably could have camped there, but on the other hand I’m not sure I’d have fit in. Quick Start, who I’d see later that day and hike with for a while during the next day (my final day), talked about having passed out on the beach with a few others the night before I arrived. I can’t remember if he said it was from weed, some kind of drug, alcohol, or a combination.

Anyway, I reconnected (and finally recognized) the Philly Boys as I arrived at the Hot Springs. I talked with Drop Zone for a while—he’d earned the name on another backpacking excursion after his food canister fell off a cliff—and then joined the others to soak my feet in one of the ten hottest pools (105+ F). Some bathers enjoyed the “no clothes required” culture of the springs. The Philly Boys and I talked with two local men about the trail and their memories of Hot Springs shenanigans from the last twenty plus years. “Hippie Dave” shared the most, how there could be hundreds of people at the springs at a time, about a man who landscaped the pools using creek stones and cement to create walls and deeper pools (really quite nice), not to mention the parties, orgies, arrests, and more that have and still occur. The Philly Boys and I listened and conversed politely and with engagement, but also a degree of emotional distance. We are not really part of the hippie backpacker culture.

Ready to depart, I asked to join the Philly Boys, which they welcomed. Collin hasn’t earned a trail name yet. His knee is bothering him, especially during descents. Crash (i.e. “Crash Bandicoot” because his face, namely his eyes, kind of looks like the video game character, much to his reluctance, though Balloons and I immediately saw the connection) is probably the fastest, most aggressive hiker of the three. Drop Zone is the quietest, but certainly solid. Crash will be leaving the trail in a few weeks after they take a break to connect with their girlfriends. If I would be in San Jose instead of Kentucky at the time they’ll be there, I would try to connect. Alas, I will be away. Collin and Drop Zone will hike until early September when their jobs begin. About all this and more, including about myself, favorite Disney song(s)—for possible trail song parodies—were discussed as we hiked. I tried Crash’s trekking poles, interested in the rationale of using them, and really liked their flow. Not only do they give the hands something to do, particularly against swelling, but most of all provide a way to leverage arm power for greater speed. I think I’ll acquire a set for my next distance hike.

Approaching the Mohave River Forks Reservoir Spillway, we passed a few day hikers going into the canyon; only, they weren’t carrying any gear, especially water. Noting that we were a couple miles from the Hot Springs or car access from the Spillway, I thought about how people like this add to the statistics of hikers dying from dehydration.

The Philly Boys and I ran into some confusion at the base of the Spillway regarding the direction of the PCT. We met a woman who was experiencing the same. Apparently some hikers had proceeded down a dirt road, but our maps indicated that we needed to cross at the adjacent creek. We opted for the latter. Drop Zone got his shoes wet and the woman fell in, so I decided to just take off my shoes. The other side of the creek was overgrown with vegetation. It didn’t seem like the right way. Collin bushwhacked to try to find the trail while I left my gear with the others in order to jog downstream to see if the PCT actually crossed there (i.e. via the aforementioned dirt road). Both options proved true. It appeared that the trail has been redirected in the last few years. So we retrieved our gear and, excluding Collin who walked the older section of the trail, walked barefoot downstream to the newer PCT crossing. In the shade of a tree we then ate some lunch, filtered some water—all that we would have for the next 11-15 miles until Silverwood Lake—and let our feet dry. Though the Boys are all twenty-two, we seemed to have compatible personalities and shared experience as distance runners.

I’m not sure how I would have completed my last two days on the trail without company.

For the remainder of the afternoon, the trail followed the meandering contours of the hills that border the desert valley of the dry Mohave River Forks Reservoir. There was little cover or shade, though thankfully a gusty wind, to shelter us from the heat. I led the group after a break near the Mohave River Campground trail junction. Venturing alone to the campground ¾ mile away (my original plan) in the heat of the day was unappealing to me, so I resolved to push on with the Boys. We met others at our break, including a girl who had hiked most of el Camino de Santiago in Spain (until her gear was stolen). She had the Camino shell attached to her pack. Everyone was pressing on to Silverwood Lake. I wanted to be in community.

The remaining miles were tough, though I initially led the aggressive pace. We were heartened to finally ascend to a point overlooking the lake (c. PCT mile 325). The blue water looked so inviting. It would be another 3+ miles before we reached camp. I was very much looking forward to soaking in the lake. I gradually burned out along the way, falling behind (Collin had fallen behind earlier, but passed me while I rested). I needed to stop at one point to rest my feet and eat a Snicker’s Bar for energy. I felt spent. Soon I ran out of water.

There was a frustrating set of missteps once I reached Silverwood Lake’s Cleghorn Picnic Area. At first, I thought I had gone too far, leaving the PCT for a bike path in hopes of reaching the camping area where I presumed other hikers would be staying. Having backtracked on the road, I found Crash and Drop Zone. (The hiker with the travel guitar was also there; at McDonald’s the next day, I learned his name is “Yellow Toe.”) Collin had apparently reached the Mesa Campground and was excited about the showers. Talking on the phone with him, Crash told him, “Leave it running.” We tried to cross over to the mesa via a faint “trail”, but that ended in water, then backtracked to attempt the bike path, but some day users were a bit vague about whether it led to the camp; so we backtracked again to the road. Tired and aggravated, Drop Zone said it well: “I’m done with this day.” He was in flip flops and shirtless, having changed at the picnic area, thinking that was where we’d camp. “Prematurely” he added, later along with how shortcuts often prove to be the longest ways.

Nonetheless, we finally found Collin. The other two lined up to shower, but I noticed a sign pointing to the “Biker Camp” (including a picture of hikers) further down the road. I didn’t want to clean up and then have to hike a ways, so told the Boys that I was pressing on, thinking that they’d join me after their showers. As they too didn’t feel like moving after showering, they arranged with the camp manager to stay in one of the nearby vacant car sites. (The manager also let them use the shower without paying.) I should have just stayed with them. But I wouldn’t learn of these details until the next day.

As dusk approached, I made camp at the corner of the mesa. The hordes of mosquitoes created a steady whine in the air above my head. Fortunately they did not really bother me. Seeing that the nearby showers (different than where the Philly Boys were) cost $2 in quarters for 4 minutes, I decided to just use the nearby faucet. Stripped to my shorts, washing from the faucet, I’m sure I was a bit of a strange sight to the car campers. I paused to let one guy fill up his water jug. I was happy to learn from him that the water was potable.

Cleaned as best as I could, with my tent set, I felt exhausted but content eating dinner—double portions since I knew the next day would be my last; I benefited from the extra energy and not needing to carry the weight. I observed a few flashlights across the water inlet below at the Cleghorn Picnic Area. Latecomers on the PCT, I presumed. I kind-of wished I was over there with them, but more so wondered where the Philly Boys had settled, wondered if they’d start early or sleep in a bit as Drop Zone had suggested earlier.

After calling Andrew to let him know that I was another day ahead of schedule, I sank into a deep sleep, hearing the sound of coyote calls amidst cheers and laughter from nearby car campers who had set up a projector in order to play classic Nintendo games. It was amusing, but not exactly my ideal atmosphere for a last night on the trail. Yet part of the nature of the PCT is adaptability, just going with opportunities. Trying to control everything only leads to irritation and burnout.

The Final Day

11:54—(same as above) [PCT Mile: 342 (Day’s Mileage: 14)]

I awoke just past 6:00, not wanting to be in any more sunlight than necessary; but also because I was anxious to return to the trail away from the littered, somewhat mangy Mesa Campground; but most of all to catch the Philly Boys in case they had left early. Having eaten heartily the night before, I decided to just pack up and depart for the trail right away, thinking I’d eat breakfast during my first break. As I ascended from Silverwood Lake to the top of Cleghorn Ridge, I passed by Yellow Toe breaking camp as well as an older woman seen the day before called “Keep Going.”

A little over 3 miles into my day, at a dirt road (RD0332), I came across Quick Start and Balloons finishing their break. I was going to eat breakfast there, but they talked about a “shoes off” break at a camp in about 1.5 miles, so I decided to join them. I didn’t recognize Balloons at first (Note: he’s from Bakersfield; named for picking up some discarded balloons early on the trail, including one with “Class of 2018” printed on it). Quick Start, named for the whimsical nature of his deciding to hike the PCT weeks before the conclusion of his first year of college in Phoenix, AR, was recognizable from the day before. He is also a runner, which we talked about extensively for a time after our breakfast break.

I was thankful for the company, but after our break my left foot flared up painfully, causing me to limp slightly. Quick Start was moving along well. Yellow Toe had passed us during the break, we yo-yoed a bit with Keep Going and an English couple, the two [Dutch?] girls were a bit behind us, and I was beginning to slow; so I let Quick Start, with his wide-brimmed beach hat, Vietnam War era external frame pack, and GoPro in hand, go on ahead of me. (Note: He began the trail even carrying his laptop for picture editing, but quickly sent that home after a brutal first day of dehydration from Campo.)

At Mile 338, I rested my feet in the shade of a power line tower, waiting for Balloons. (In the desert, shade is a treasure that often dictates where to take a break.) Before stopping, I called out to Quick Start who was not far in front of me, but he didn’t hear. My throat was too dry. Balloons eventually reached me. We enjoyed some conversation as he hydrated and ate some powdered hummus.

To my delight, the Philly Boys soon caught up with us, having risen later. I learned how their evening had concluded, thought about joining them for the last 3 miles, but then didn’t want to abandon Balloons just yet. Also, I wasn’t sure I would be able to maintain their more aggressive pace.

Before departing for our last haul, I gave Balloons some foot stretching tips, which he implemented and desperately needed. He’s going to meet up with his parents and likely check with a specialist about his foot. I hope he’s able to make a swift recovery. (Note: He works in environmental science, and has been to the Bay Area before.)

Reaching our first overlook of Cajon Pass and its hilly, barren glory, I saw that the Philly Boys were not too far ahead. My foot still hurt a bit, but was numbing, so I tried to use my hips, gluts, and knees in my usual fluid descent fashion, which can be quite fast. I caught them just as we reached the weigh station to I-15.

McDonald’s with its golden arches never had nor likely never again will hold such appeal. It is a brief hiker haven between sections C and D, as is the hiker-friendly Best Western Hotel that provides discounted rates to PCT hikers. There is a heavy 22+ mile ascending waterless stretch to start Section D, which discourages hikers during the midday heat. Hence the air conditioning and cheap food of McDonald’s (or nearby Subway) is so appealing. Many hikers opted to spend the night at the Best Western. Some, like the Philly Boys, planned to wait out the heat, pack up 4+ liters of water, and start the ascent that evening.

“I am partially jealous of you,” Collin commented as I prepared to leave with Andrew. “I am partially jealous of me too,” I replied, meaning that I was sad to leave the PCT community in which I had begun to belong. There were at least fourteen PCT hikers in the McDonald’s, packs taking over part of the walkway and half of a booth—to the annoyance or amusement of other patrons, who were probably mostly curious by this jovial but hungry and grimy group of bon vivants. An older woman, a trail angel, offered us peanut butter cookies.


Crash and I had been talking about cold drinks, especially McFlurries, the day before, so I indulged in a large and then small vanilla milkshake. So good. Andrew and I next drove to Chipotle en route to his place in Yucaipa.

Before leaving, I wrote down the Philly Boys Instagram account to follow (@norf_bound) as well as Collin’s email to send him some photos. I am definitely tired. My foot hurts and feels slightly swollen, so I need to rest and tend to it at least for today.

Cleaning up last night felt really good, though it took two soap scrubs to really get the dirt off, especially around the feet and ankles. I have some fresh blisters, likely from pushing too hard these last three days in heat across sandy terrain.

I wouldn’t really want to day hike any of the area I covered in this section. There are just not really points of interest except Mount San Gorgonio, Big Bear Lake, and Silverwood Lake, though just hiking by them is enough in my opinion. The highlight of this section was the people, feeling more part of the PCT community than ever before.

I learned some lessons about gear—refinements really: e.g. checking if things work before leaving, how to better clean and store some, items to lose or add, food that works—but also confirmation about pacing for enjoyment, physical stamina, and injury prevention. I sacrificed a bit of the latter in favor of community, which I do not regret. But if I were to attempt a thru hike again, or even with sections, I must be ever mindful of pace for the first 1-3 weeks of my body’s acclimation—not ignoring the knowledge of conditioning learned from distance running.

Part of me is sad to be done, but part of me is satisfied. There are other important, meaningful responsibilities and adventures in store this summer. Lake Tahoe and Section C of the PCT have been an incredible start. Thank you, God, for the opportunities, and for being my strength in weakness. I love you.

Amen.

Not to Walk Alone, Part 3

The following is Part 3 in a series of four posts about my recent experience on the PCT (Pacific Crest Trail). Read Part 1 and Part 2. Each part has been adapted from journal entries written in the wild. The date and time listed are when the journal entry was originally written.

Revelation of Loneliness?

10 June, 2018: Sunday

c.18:00—Deep Creek [PCT Mile 304 (Mileage Today: 17.5)]

Due to the fullness and intensity of yesterday (June 9), I decided to just go to bed at 22:00 instead of journaling. Now cleaned up for the evening, I will account for the day.

Two nights ago, at Arrastre Creek, someone hiked past my camp around 23:00; otherwise, the next activity was around 5:50 yesterday morning when Bill and Candice came by. Bill’s voice, excited about the stream, was unmistakable. I rose soon after, surprised by how cold it was outside. I felt poor as a result, hands struggling with numbness. I ate a somewhat heavy breakfast, knowing I would be re-supplied in a few hours by Andrew & Meghan.

(Note: I have decided to generally avoid eating dry granola on the trail—it takes too long to chew and just doesn’t sit right in my stomach.)

Setting out from Arrastre Creek, it was not long before I was stopped by what seems to be my new morning poop routine. By then, the temperature was warm enough to strip down to my normal hiking layers: boonie, synthetic t-shirt, and swim shorts.

Hiking along Nelson Ridge provided grand views of waterless Baldwin Lake as well as the hills, mountains, and valleys descending east and northeast to the barren desert region of Lucerne Valley. While it was impressive to look out upon, I would not want to be down in it. Along the way, I caught Bill and Candice, which made me happy. I wanted to be able to say goodbye. We ultimately finished our descent to Highway 18 together where Pancake was already waiting for his wife in the shade of a tree. Andrew & Meghan had already arrived.

Saying farewell to my PCT companions, having yo-yoed these previous days, was bittersweet. Pancake’s wife arrived soon, after which I said a reluctant goodbye to all, knowing I wouldn’t see them again because they each planned to spend the night in Big Bear. I am thankful for the moments we shared together, ever reminded that it is the community that draws me to the PCT as much as the landscape.

Andrew, Meghan, and I drove into Big Bear for a hearty brunch of Mexican food at Hacienda Grill. First we stopped at a local CVS for some super glue, with which I hope to patch my pillow tonight. Brunch was delicious: chips with a variety of salsas (Hacienda Grill has a salsa bar) and then tasty carne asada. The caloric value alone would prove essential later. Otherwise, I was thankful for the 2.5 hour break with Andrew & Meghan. Being back in “civilization”, however, or “the poor man’s Tahoe” as Andrew calls Big Bear, I realized that I am not ready to return—especially to what can seem like an aura of general social boredom and escapism through material things. My spirit was still in the serenity of the wilderness, the simplicity of the backpacking life.

Re-supplied, I was dropped back off at the PCT-Highway 18 intersection. Having already completed about 8 miles earlier, I intended to hike only 9 more miles. Near Doble, I had to make an anticipated detour to avoid last year’s burn area. I took a left turn on a dirt road, but it proved to be a turn too soon, which dead-ended. Fortunately, a mine provided me a geographical reference, visible up through the charred trees. Therefore, I determined to just ascend the steep hillside to reach Road 3N16.

A mother and her two children were at the side of the road above the mine surveying the fire damage, the former saying something about how her husband (the children’s father) had been involved as a firefighter. Progressing along dusty Road 3N16, most four-wheelers courteously slowed down with a nod as they passed (to reduce dust washing over me), to which I nodded in gratitude, offering them the peace sign. The eventual ascent back to the PCT via an unnamed jeep road was brutal. At the top, however, I was rewarded with views north across the desert while the PCT progressed west. Concerned that Caribou Creek might not have water, I rationed as best as I could.

When I arrived at Caribou Creek, everything was clearly dry, but I felt a pang of hope at the sight of a water cache. That feeling was immediately absorbed as I realized that there was only a trickle left in one jug. Tired, having covered about 17 miles so far for the day, I sat for a rest. My water was about gone. Fortunately, I thought to eat one of my clementines, which revived my spirit and body. I knew or resolved to press ahead, knowing that I had 11 miles to go before reaching Little Bear Spring Trail Camp. Though there was about 700 feet of climbing to do, the steady 5-mile descent to the camp afterward made the endeavor seem possible. Still, I knew that it would be taxing and that I would arrive after dusk.

Thankfully, the path’s conditions were generally smooth. I began my ascent just as another PCT hiker (who I later learned is called “Yellow Toe”) was dropped off at the PCT-Van Dusen Canyon Road junction. I did not see him after that crossing, distinct with his small travel guitar strapped to his pack. Meanwhile, I found a deep reserve of strength within myself, buffered by feet sparing me problems as well as a few glorious views of Big Bear Lake and distant Mount San Gorgonio. Also a blessing was a small water cache halfway through, this time with water. I filled up a half liter, not wanting to be greedy in case someone behind me was also desperate.

The grandest sight met me as I rounded the bend of Delamar Mountain. The canyons and hills holding Holcomb Creek were illuminated with golden twilight, layers behind layers like waves descending to the San Gabriel Mountains beyond Cajon Pass, the destination of my journey. Truly an inspiring sight.

I spotted two hikers ahead, and ultimately caught them just as the young woman was scratching her completely exposed butt. (She appeared to be hiking in a sports skirt of some kind.) I was a little ways back at that point, so delayed actually catching up to them to prevent any potential awkwardness. When I did catch them, I recognized the couple I had seen hitchhiking outside Hacienda Grill in Big Bear.

[Pause for some much-needed dinner.]

20:10—(Same Location)

Dusk is peaceful here. I may be the first to have camped at this spot. It is a boulder field with sand, likely a flood bank from when the river overflows in late winter or early spring. I have seen many hikers pass above me—my camp is below the trail—ascending to disappear around the bend of the western shoulder that overlooks my position. Most hikers are in pairs or groups of three. It makes me feel a bit lonely. I wonder where they’re planning to camp tonight, for I know of no place for about 10 miles, if even that. I heard some talk about the Hot Springs at Mile 308, but allegedly there’s no camping permitted within a mile of it. Still, I get this sense like everyone’s going to a party, and that I’m missing it. I was very tempted to continue after exploring this creek bed—which required a hundred meter off-trail descent via the hint of a path that someone has made. The allure of discovering what is just around the bend is powerful. But it was too much of a gamble. If the Hot Springs, only 4 miles away, proves closed to camping, I definitely am too weary to push on another 6+ miles. My body is exhausted from yesterday (more on that in a moment).

I had hoped to camp at a creek side day use area this evening, but an obvious sign forbids it in order to preserve the habitat of a rare frog that is in a delicate state of repopulation. I saw a few in the water at the site. Moreover, the day use area is popular with off-roaders and their indelicate treatment of the surroundings and raucous behavior. Hiking most of this afternoon along a ravine, I am thankful for this spot, which is 3 miles farther than the day use area. Unsure whether I’d have to dry camp (i.e. have no water source nearby), I filled up my entire 2-liter “dirty” reservoir (for unfiltered water) at the day use area. Having hidden my pack up a hill behind a rock so that I wouldn’t have to descend and then ascend the dusty dirt road with it, once reunited, I then proceeded to carry the full bladder against my neck on my shoulder like a precious lamb. Having the cool water against my neck was quite nice, actually. I soon filtered the water at a gully bridge (Mile 302).

[It’s getting dark outside, and my headlamp is being frustratingly problematic again.]

Returning to yesterday evening, I was discouraged that the faucet was off at Little Bear Spring Trail Camp. There was another camper further down the trail, Jeff, who was very kind, giving me about a half liter of water and a small bag of gummy snacks—“For the extra vitamins” he said. He is attending UC Irvine and likes to come up about every weekend. I smelled weed at his camp, and noticed an alcoholic beverage beside him. I said farewell, determined to find water at the next trailside camp only a mile away.

This was all after conferring about the faucet with the PCT couple I had passed a while earlier, during which I must have seemed strange having run swiftly from Jeff without my pack and then dashed back. Nonetheless, it felt so good to run, surprisingly energizing.

Click Map to Enlarge

At last, as darkness began to settle, I reached a [German?] couple camping at WRCSO287. Before meeting them, I saw “H20—>” written with pine cones, so dropped my pack and proceeded to explore a rocky creek bed, but found nothing. (My appearing in the shadows and then vanishing led the female camper to question her sanity and feel a bit creeped out. She admitted this later.) The [German] couple was kind, and was acquainted with the other couple hiking behind me who soon arrived. The male [German] showed us to the lingering puddles of water further up the rocky creek bed, which was fortunately more than enough for all of us. I talked with “Moon”—my unofficial nickname to the female hiker, for reasons outlined earlier—learned that her male hiking partner is Danish and that she is from or has lived in Santa Cruz.

I did not get to speak much more with them. It was dark, so we promptly set up camp, ate, and completed our personal camp routines. Moon and the Dane “cowboy camped” (i.e. slept without a tent), which I felt less inclined to doing having seen (and killed, I’m somewhat ashamed to admit) a scorpion and sizeable black spider while I ate dinner. Moon and the Dane didn’t seem too concerned, though, instead quite happy with each other. I went to bed a little while later, weary from having covered 28 miles, which is my new day record.

This morning, I woke at the usual 6:00 timeframe. The [German] couple had left about twenty minutes earlier. I rose when Moon and the Dane were about to depart. It was another cool morning. Not planning to hike as far, I took my time, enjoying the atmosphere. After all, that is one of my favorite parts of backpacking, and I must remember why I’m here. Being around thru-hikers awakes a certain competitiveness within me. More so, it is the desire to join their company, however.

Following Holcomb Creek further from the mountains was nice, especially the views of Lake Arrowhead in the distance and the looming San Gabriel Mountains. But while my spirit began the day enthusiastically (still needed a poop stop, though), my body quickly admitted its weariness. As a result, my pace seems to have been a bit slower. I seem to average about 3 miles/hour with breaks, 3.5 if feeling solid, and 4 if consciously pushing it, though that taxes the body pretty thoroughly.

At one point, I passed some late risers, talked briefly with one called “Balloons.” They had arrived to their campsite late last night, but Balloons said “F— it”, hopeful about meeting some “Weekenders” at the Hot Springs today, hopeful to be offered a beer. Balloon was very chill. I think I smelled weed. I later passed the [German] couple (actually, I learned that the female is from Switzerland—I cannot remember their names). The German was struggling to break in new hiking boots, his old ones dangling from his pack. I’m not sure if they’re still behind me. I didn’t see them at the Splinter’s Cabin Junction, so Balloons and his entourage must have also passed them; for I think I spotted Balloons hike by my camp area not long ago.

Anyway, marked by a large bridge, Splinter’s Cabin Junction, and many points along Deep Creek, are popular with day visitors or weekenders. As I arrived, very ready for a break, I spotted Moon and the Dane with two other female twenty-somethings. Moon and one of the other young women were sunbathing topless. Where they were all perched looked crowded, so I settled on a large nearby sand beach—this after offering a Hello and some comment about this creek crossing being a small slice of paradise. I hope they don’t think I was being sheepish about the nudity. Having grown up in Europe, it does not seem that strange. In retrospect, I should have just crossed the creek a settled where they had set their gear.

Regardless, Splinter’s Cabin Junction provided a refreshing and much-needed 1.5 hour break. I soaked my feet, washed off the dirt, and briefly napped. I couldn’t help but be amused observing a boisterous man, his Latina girlfriend (presumably), and her three kids. The latter really didn’t want to be submerged in the water, but the adults were trying to coax them into doing so as a demonstration of their readiness to camp this evening. There were a fair amount of tears from the children, but some eventually succumbed to parent pressure.

As the other PCT hikers departed, I thought I should too, even with only a few miles (or so I first thought) to go. I knew there could be an issue with my first target, the day use area, so I wanted to allow ample time and daylight to adapt. I left the creek junction at about 14:40. The Dane, Moon, and Balloon’s entourage were talking at one end of the bridge, clearly familiar with each other. Once again, I didn’t feel like intruding, even felt a bit old as they all seem in their young twenties. But now I kind of wish I had paused to at least enter the conversation for a moment.

I sometimes feel out of place, not being a thru-hiker. The thru-hiking community is unique, but I do not belong to it as a section hiker. Not that thru-hikers really judge non thru-hikers in that way, but there is a sense of heightened transience being a section hiker, knowing that we would only see each other at most for a few days. Being part of the PCT thru-hiking community remains my greatest draw to attempt another thru-hike.

Click Map to Enlarge

In the end, I powered on to select this site. Here I am.

At sunset, two [female?] hikers stopped to sit on the trail west above me to enjoy the view I unfortunately couldn’t really see from my camp. I’m not sure if they saw me, though I tried waving, but nonetheless felt a pang of wanting to be up there with them. Some company would be welcome. It has been a tiring last two days. Progressing with reasonable mileage, I should complete this section in two and a half days. For now, I need rest.

Camping next to a creek, it is curious how running water sometimes echoes with what sounds like people’s voices. I noticed that for the first time when backpacking in Yosemite National Park. Is that a real sensation or is it just a revelation of loneliness?

Read Part 4

Not to Walk Alone, Part 2

The following is Part 2 in a series of posts about my recent experience on the PCT (Pacific Crest Trail). Read Part 1. Each part has been adapted from journal entries written in the wild. The date and time listed are when the journal entry was originally written.

Trail Magic

7 June, 2018: Thursday
18:59—Mission Creek Trail Camp [PCT Mile 240 (Mileage Today: c.11.5)]

Click Map to Enlarge

Arriving at Fork Springs an hour into my hike this morning leads me to think that I actually camped around PCT Mile 229 last night. Nonetheless, I slept pretty well, despite being unable to fix my pillow. I did miss it, though. I found the two holes this evening (Note: there would end up being at least six—unfortunately too many to repair), but alas my patching glue is hardened. I will ask Andrew to bring some super glue when I next re-supply.

Otherwise, the stars were glorious last night. I was too tired to gaze at them for long. I woke at various points during the night to switch from lying on my back to my side, etc. The temperature was warm enough that I only progressively used my sleeping bag as a blanket. A few night hikers passed my camp, one around midnight, shinning his or her light on my tent—possibly seeking a camp. Another passed around 4:00, likely an older man I met around noon today at a trailside camp (WRCSO235). Before I met him, he had been sleeping in preparation of hiking again tonight, having struggled with heat. I stopped at his camp for its welcome shade, the first all day, to eat lunch, eager for the energy.

This morning, I rose before the sun hit my camp, wanting to take advantage of the shade. My pack-up and breakfast process felt a bit slow, but the tortilla with peanut butter (honeyed), dried bananas and raspberries was delicious, all washed down with a juicy clementine. A few hikers passed as I ate. I saw one at Fork Springs. I also passed a couple camps, wondering if one was the Philadelphia Boys.

The ascent today from 4000ft to 8000ft was tough. I am sore and tired; therefore chose to camp here at Mission Creek Trail Camp for extra rest, especially before a rolling 16-mile stretch without water sources. Also concerning is what I suspect to be the middle portion of my left foot’s plantar fascia. God, restore it, protect it. Blisters have mostly been avoided so far, thank God. But my headlamp gave me issues last night, dying prematurely with brand new lithium batteries. I cleaned some of the previous alkaline battery leakage out this evening, which seems to have worked. Hopefully that will last.

This afternoon, the flowers, particularly the grape soda lupine, were bright and fragrant among a burned section of forest. Flies swarmed in some areas, as did bees. I passed a middle-aged couple section hiking, and then another middle-aged section hiker, Candice, who is originally from Mount Hood, Oregon, but who now works as a pediatrician near Santa Rosa. She was struggling with the altitude. She was sitting beside the creek at Forested Flats Junction area. I encouraged her that the terrain would soon improve. She eventually reached Mission Creek Trail Camp. We shared a picnic table this evening, talked, including about her desire to bring her mother to France. It was nice to share time with a kindred spirit.

The temperature is much cooler up here, and the forest is welcome. Nearby, past a horse corral, the water trickles down from the earth, or through the earth, into a metal bin, and then on as a barely discernable stream. Many bees busied themselves around it, but I managed to clean up with the frigid water without being disturbed, which was refreshing—as was my nap after having set up camp.

Now, the birds are singing, calling to each other, the bees have gone, a few mosquitoes hunt, and a woodpecker taps a tree here and there. I intend for an earlier morning, so will go to bed soon.

I saw Dan leaving the water source here as I arrived. If Candice leaves before me—her plan is to depart at 4:00—I’ll presumably catch her along the way as she hikes quite a bit slower than me. Otherwise, I’m not sure I’ll see any familiar faces tomorrow. Here’s to hoping, though. Thank you, LORD, for people.

8 June, 2018: Friday
18:45—Arrastre Creek [PCT Mile 258.5 (Mileage Today: 18.5)]

Click Map to Enlarge

It was lovely to sleep for about ten hours. Before bed, right after finishing my journal entry, two other hikers arrived. The first was who I learned today is called “Pancake” (real name: Brian, I think). We chatted briefly as he dropped his bag and went directly toward the water. He told me that he had hiked from Whitewater Preserve, which was a solid day of hiking considering the ascent. The voluminous voice of the next arrival talking with Pancake suggested the man I met yesterday around noon at the shaded camp down the canyon.

This morning, I heard Candice indeed leave around 4:00; though having just talked with Pancake, she is back at Arrastre Trail Camp. I don’t know where I passed her today (I later learned that it was probably when she stepped off the trail to use the restroom around the Predators in Action cages). Bummer. The older man, who I learned is Bill (from Long Beach, California), left about twenty minutes before me. He was preceded by Pancake.

I took my time leaving camp this morning, being sure to refill my two-liter water bladder for the 16+ miles of waterless trail. For hydration, it seems to work well for me to drink at least a liter of water at dinner and at breakfast. I was slowed somewhat this morning because I needed to poop, which is a bit of a process when trying to honor Leave No Trace principles.*

*The Seven Principles: Plan Ahead and Prepare, Travel and Camp on Durable Surfaces, Dispose of Waste Properly, Leave What You Find, Minimize Campfire Impacts, Respect Wildlife, and Be Considerate of Other Visitors. 

Regarding human waste, general practice is to dig a hole at least six inches deep. This serves as one’s latrine. Once one’s load has been lightened, used tissue paper must be packed out, the hole buried, and preferably covered by rocks and/or sticks forming an “X”. For the sake of preserving the raw beauty of the wilderness for everyone, please honor these principles.

I departed camp at 7:50, and was surprised to see two other tents around the bend near the trailhead. One had no rain fly, to which the [male?] occupant glanced up at me before collapsing back—whether in exhaustion, frustration, or disinterest, I cannot say.

With the morning shade and cool breeze, conditions were great for hiking. The first two miles felt strong, but soon after my plantar fascia began “barking” (as Pancake later put it). It was the worst at Mile 5. Having stopped briefly and stretched, I felt nauseous with pain and limped for a while. I made it to Coon Creek Jumpoff (Mile 6) and there rested in the shade talking with Pancake and Bill. We left in the same order as this morning, but I soon caught Bill, and then eventually Pancake. Both are connecting with their wives tomorrow mid-morning for a Nero (less than 10-mile day) and probably a Zero (day with no miles hiked) in Big Bear. So tomorrow may be the last I’ll see of them.

Pancake passed by my camp a while ago, having taken a two-hour siesta. He’s aiming to camp at CSO259. He told me that Bill is camping with Candice back upstream.

The rest of the day was generally improved in terms of this morning. My foot had ups and downs. Highlights were the views: back south toward the Coachella Valley with Mount San Jacinto, west at the back of Mount San Gorgonio, and then north toward Baldwin Lake and Big Bear. Also wonderful was some trail magic: a much-appreciated water cache from “Papa Smurf” and “Mountain Mama”, and soon after a garbage bin of treats provided by the Big Bear Hostel. Though not much was left at either, the spirit of the PCT community was felt.

Finally, at the trail junction with a dirt road (RD0258), I was surprised to come across Andrew walking down the road. “Andrew?”

Apparently, there was confusion about our re-supply day. He thought it was today. No matter. It was great to see him. He had arrived at Highway 18 at noon, eventually met Dan who said I was about five hours back, and then went to Big Bear for lunch before accurately guessing where I would be on the trail off of Highway 38. He had hiked a mile down the road when we literally met at the junction. If he or I had passed a minute earlier, we might have missed each other entirely.

Andrew hiked with me another mile to this small campsite and hung out as I set up for the night and ate dinner. He left over an hour ago. The plan is to connect at Highway 18 tomorrow. Meghan will likely be with him. We’ll go to lunch in Big Bear and then I’ll be dropped off for my remaining 9 miles or so to Caribou Creek. If there is no water, and my body is solid, I may press on another 10 miles to Little Bear Spring Trail Camp. But that will make it a 26+ mile day, which would probably not be best for my foot. Hopefully there is still water at Caribou Creek.

In the meantime, I’ve left off my rain fly tonight because I want to see the stars. Birds are chatty, flies are buzzing, but it’s remarkable how silent everything becomes after dark. Last night, I could only hear my heartbeat.

For now, I am sleepy. I may not need to get in my sleeping bag tonight, the temperature is so pleasant. Thank you, LORD, for the strength for today, and the blessings along the way. You are so good. Amen.

The Persistent Present

21:36—(same location)

I am restful, but having trouble falling asleep. My heart pounds in my chest, my senses heightened to every sound. I feel blood throbbing through my feet. At dusk, the bees and flies went quiet—I wonder where they go at night—as the night birds call to each other: owls, among other types of birds. At last, the wind stirs high above, hushing the canyon cliffs. A cricket sounds. Listen close, a flutter of wings here; a snap of a twig there. If only I could speak each creature’s language, listen to its conversation, know its reasoning. I am a guest here, but do not feel unwelcome. I am a curiosity. I am at peace, my spirit heightened by the life around me.

Reflecting a little while ago, backpacking has a way of forcing one into the persistent present. There are no devices to get lost in, to escape through and thus lose a sense of time. Each moment, like each step on the trail, is felt. Of course, moments still blur together. In strength, time flows. In pain or weariness, moments are a stumbling delirium or a jolt of attentiveness. Still, the present lingers. The choice is to resist or embrace it. On the trail, one can become fixated on the future, escape into otherness—destinations, resolutions, doubts. A focus on miles can lead to trailaholism; but sometimes hope is renewed by imagining the unknown. There is no simple answer, one to fit all circumstances; but the needs remain fundamental: water, food, shelter, which includes proper clothing; progress balanced with an understanding of both limitations and the will and power to sometimes overcome them. There is much, so much, while at the same time so beautifully little. Hallelujah.

Read Part 3

Not to Walk Alone, Part 1

The following is Part 1 in a four-part series about my recent experience on the PCT (Pacific Crest Trail). Each part has been adapted from journal entries written in the wild. The date and time listed are when the journal entry was originally written.

Prologue

29 May, 2018: Tuesday

9:36—San Jose, California

I have much to process from this last year—so far my most stressful, demanding experience of time. This last year has aged me, taken a holistic toll. Yet there have been blessings, lessons, and provision. God has strengthened me for each day, week, and month. Hallelujah.

Yet it is time to reflect in the beauty of solitude.

I will go to South Lake Tahoe first for a few days of rest. Tahoe is one of my favorite places in the world. I will then journey south mainly via Highway 395, which follows along the eastern feet of the Sierra Nevada mountain range, including past Mono Lake. I am excited to travel an unfamiliar route, ultimately rendezvousing with my friends Andrew & Meghan in Yucaipa, California.

The PCT beckons me.

I am uncertain. I will hike it, certainly, but will it feel like running a gauntlet as in the past? I am taking great effort to pack as light as possible, to give my body a better chance. I will also be more mindful of pacing myself. Andrew will meet me at one or two points for re-supply, which will help disperse food weight during my seven to nine days on the trail. I am going to try my old neutral running shoes (New Balance RC1400s) in my ongoing quest to better preserve my feet; though their having already logged 700 running miles may make that statement ironic. I also may not bring cooking gear, but just eat cold food to save weight.

Possibilities.

I want to enjoy this hike. Perhaps a paradox, I pray that the hike is refreshing—of soul at least. The ease of my five-mile hike with Matthew on Saturday in Russian Ridge Open Space Preserve heartened me. More so, my time in the Word yesterday, Memorial Day, reminded me that God is near:

“I remember the days of old; I mediate on all that you have done; I ponder the work of your hands. I stretch out my hands to you; my soul thirsts for you like a parched land. . . . Let me hear in the morning of your steadfast love, for in you I trust. Make me know the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul. . . . Let your good Spirit lead me on level ground” (Psalm 143:5-6, 8, 10b).

“The Lord replied, ‘My Presence will go with you, and I will give you rest” (Exodus 33:14). “This gives us courage: We never have to walk alone” (Riekert Botha, An Anchor for the Soul).

God is my companion when no one else chooses to, dares to, or does not understand. Thus past, present, and future join—a mysterious temporality.

Amen.

Beginning

8 June, 2018: Wednesday
20:57—Fork Mission Creek [PCT Mile 231.4*  (Mileage Today: c.23)]
*I started at PCT Mile 210

(Click Map to Enlarge)

Aside from a clogged water filter—likely from calcium buildup, which with some research I learned could be cleaned by periodically soaking the filter in vinegar followed by backwashing—I have never felt more excited, confident, and ready to hike a PCT section. I want to enjoy this experience, this gift.

I am quite tired, and a bit hungry, but feel great lying on top of my down feather sleeping bag and air pad, having covered a lot of ground today. I am ready to sleep.

Side Note: a dinner of two tortillas, each with a slice of pepper jack cheese, spinach, and peppered beef jerky, followed by a Snicker’s Bar, is delicious.

This morning, I woke comfortably and casually at Andrew & Meghan’s house in Yucaipa at 6:50. Andrew and I left at 8:15. Having feasted heartily the last two nights on Mexican cuisine, and a breakfast of crepes this morning, I visited the restroom about four times before hiking today, including a brief gas station stop near Cabazon. (Taking advantage of plumbing and abundant toilet paper, in other words. #BackpackingLife)

Driving on deteriorating roads in what my PCT guidebook calls “West Palm Springs Village,” Andrew and I parked at the gate at the end of Boulder Drive. We backtracked on the PCT to find the trail register, but there was ultimately nothing to find. I figured that it had to do with being late in the PCT thru-hiking season. Most thru-hikers should be in the Sierras by now.

Andrew joined me for the first mile out on my journey. I welcomed his company and conversation, but had to say goodbye when he reached as far as he dared without water. He left me just before the trail reaches the Mesa Wind Farm.

I hiked alone, feeling strong at a relaxed pace, appreciating a few hours of gusty wind until I detoured a half mile to visit the Whitewater Preserve. The Preserve is an oasis in the desert. I met a ranger, signed the PCT registry, and then enjoyed the Preserve’s piped water and cool wading pool. Sitting in the shade, refreshed, I enjoyed lunch (two Cliff Bars) while reclining on the short stone wall of a bridge. Overall, a lovely place.

The remainder of the day, 13:30 until about 19:00, was quite warm (probably the mid 90s F). Most of it was invested crossing the Whitewater River region, ascending and descending ridges with views of Mount San Jacinto to the south and Mount San Gorgonio to the north. In some areas, the wind blew so hard that I had to work to keep my hat on. As the sun dipped below the canyon ridges, I welcomed the shade.

A highlight of the day was meeting some PCT thru-hikers, which I did not expect. I came across the first group at the Whitewater River crossing at Red Dome. They are three friends from high school in Philadelphia who just graduated college. A guy from Ohio was ultimately also hiking with them, though I did not learn this until further up the trail. I mainly talked with Christian, but unfortunately have forgotten the others’ names. We yo-yoed a few times this afternoon, including at the first Fork Mission Creek campsite where I took a first dinner break (second dinner was this evening at camp).

At that same site, a couple going at a slower pace also caught up with me as I was preparing to set forth again. I had passed them a few miles back during a ridge ascent. At that first trailside meeting, the young woman offered to share their shade, but I graciously declined. Reunited at the creek, lingering in the shade, I learned that the man has hiked the AT (Appalachian Trail). We had a pleasant conversation. They stayed back as I continued up the trail.

I had also caught a young hiker named Dan earlier on the ridge before descending to Fork Mission Creek while he slowed to text home. He passed me again shortly after as I took a brief break to air my feet and duct tape the hot spots on my heels (which worked well, I might add). I officially met him later, miles further upstream along Fork Mission Creek, when I conferred with him about our location on the map. I had become slightly confused about my exact location on the route, having hiked ahead about 400 meters to scout for a campsite before backtracking to Dan’s camp thinking he might be at Fork Springs. Scrutinizing the terrain in comparison to the contour map, we determined that such was not the case, so I pressed on. I bid Dan goodnight, and ultimately settled for this nice spot this evening. I passed the “Philadelphia Boys” (as I have come to call them) along the way while they were soaking in a pool. They passed me again after I had set up camp.

It has been a relaxing evening, trying to regain a sense of camp routine. It is always refreshing to wash the dust of the trail off with cold creek water (finishing with a wet wipe is quite satisfying). My feet are looking good. Alas, my air pillow may have a hole. Time to tend to it, stretch, massage some sore areas, and sleep.

Thank you, LORD, for a solid first day. Amen.

Read Part 2