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)]
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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)]
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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.
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.
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