Blistered Kind Of Love (10 page)

Ed started by giving us the play-by-play of upcoming trail. After Anza we would head into the San Jacintos, which offered steep climbs up Spitler and Apache mountains and then an equally steep descent down Devils Slide Trail for a town stop in Idyllwild. This was the section of the trail where Marge, also known as the “Old Gal,” had recently suffered a nasty fall. Next was another mountain range, the San Bernardinos. Before we reached them, however, we would face a descent out of the San Jacintos and the greatest loss and subsequent regain in elevation on any portion of the trail. We'd plummet from over 9,000 feet in the San Jacintos down to San Gorgonio Pass at about 1,000 feet, and then head back up to 8,500 in the San Bernardinos. In the process, Ed told us sternly, while scratching at the few tufts of hair on his head, we should be sure to find the Pink Motel in West Palm Springs.

“The Pink Motel,” he said, “is a junkyard house in the middle of sand and chaparral. It's a grade-A trail angel spot, but not easy to find.” He marked it on our map before continuing his verbal tour through Section C of our guidebook and the San Bernardinos. He looked at me gravely as he did so. I stared back and was concerned by the sight of his poor dentition.

“You know, you'll see grizzly bears in Section C.”

“Holy shit,” I thought, “is he kidding? Grizzly bears, down here?”

“
Grizzly
bears?”

“Yes, grizzlies, most hikers see them,” Ed continued in the solemn tone.

“Don't y'all listen to him,” broke in Chris. “He's talking about some sort of animal farm. There ain't no wild grizzlies down here.”

Ed grinned. “Yeah, there's an animal park near Onyx Summit, right next to the trail. Owner's got a grizzly caged. He's a Hollywood animal trainer and
he keeps his animals out there. He has cougars, too, and tigers.”

“The tiger was in the movie
Gladiator
,” Stacey pitched in. I thought that was an exciting piece of news and had Ed mark the location in our guidebook.

Meadow Ed talked us all the way up to Agua Dulce, at mile 450, before taking a break. He didn't rest for long, though. Our next lecture was about Scott, the aspiring “yo-yo” hiker. A yo-yo hike is a double hike, a Mexico–Canada–Mexico odyssey in one hiking season. So far, no one's been able to pull it off, though several have tried. But according to Ed, because of the very low snow levels in the Sierra, this might just be the year. Scott (nicknamed “Let It Be”) was attempting the yo-yo for the fourth and probably final time. If he didn't succeed this time, he probably never would; rumor had it that Scott would exchange his yo-yo hiking shoes for wedding rings in the fall.

“Just another example of how some women try to keep men from achieving greatness,” Ed jokingly lamented. I thought it demonstrated great greatness that Scott could avoid finding steady employment for three years in a row and still locate a woman willing to marry him. Ed told us that his “sources” indicated Scott had already signed the trail register at Tehachapi (mile 555) and that he'd be in Kennedy Meadows (mile 700) soon. That put him a good 450 to 500 miles ahead of us and made me wonder whether we'd make it out of California before seeing Scott yo-yoing his way back to Mexico.

I asked how old Scott was. Ed told me he was only twenty-eight, and then went inside the RV to get his PCT scrapbook so that he could show me a picture. He was back a minute later with Paul and each held a photo album in their hands. They bragged back and forth about their photo collections and in particular about competing autographed pictures of Let It Be. As I looked through the albums, complete with lists of trail register signings for several years, it occurred to me that Paul and Ed followed Pacific Crest Trail hiking as if it were a competitive sport. For them the “standings” were the trail registers with the lists of names and dates, and the “disabled list” was gathered through word of mouth and conjecture. “All-stars” were hikers like Scott, the fastest and most determined people on the trail. With such rabid fan support, no wonder some hikers seemed to get caught up in turning their hike into a competitive event. I wondered if Ed and Paul privately amused themselves by
placing bets on how far different hikers would make it. Considering that Ed had asked us to call Paul when we finally got off the trail, it wouldn't have surprised me a bit. How far did they think we'd get?

The next morning Ed sat with Angela and me on the porch.

“You'll cry,” he warned Angela. Then he looked at me. “You'll cry, too. This trail can break you.” He fixed his glance on our tent. “And sometimes that tent is going to seem awfully small for the two of ya.”

“Thanks, Ed, that's very encouraging,” I replied.

“Well, I've seen many couples torn apart on this trail. You guys are connected by an umbilical cord there,” he said, pointing at the tent. “You may want to pull away . . . but what then? Two people, one tent, one stove.”

“One sleeping bag,” Angela added. I glared at her.

“Duffy, I hope I will see you guys in Kennedy Meadows. I throw a party on June 15, Ray Day. Drink up, and then head into the mountains. And that's when we see who the
real
hikers are. Thirteen thousand feet, glacier traverses, and stream-crossings—and I am not talking about the type of stream-crossing that you and your little brother used to get a kick out of while standing over the toilet.”

I gave his joke a token smile. “We'll see you there, Ed, umbilical cord and all.”

BEFORE SETTING MY TREKKING SHOES
on the Pacific Crest Trail, I did plenty of reading—twenty-seven books' worth, to be exact. These included John Muir's
My First Summer in the Sierra
, Cindy Ross'
Journey on the Crest
, and a collection of short stories about misadventures in the wild called
No Shit, There I Was
. I didn't limit my research to paperbacks, though; I also scoured the Internet and newspapers for tidbits—anything that would help me prepare for the journey ahead. By the time we got out of Bob's van at the Mexican border, I thought I had a decent idea of what to expect. But I quickly discovered that the printed page couldn't adequately prepare me for life on the trail. In particular, the printed page absolutely failed to prepare me for meeting Meadow Ed. But while Meadow Ed came as a surprise, he instantly became an integral part of my hike. His visage would hang over me for the rest of the summer, pushing me forward. Unwittingly, he became one of my greatest motivators, albeit in a twisted, “I'll show you” sort of way. Meadow Ed was skeptical about our chances, and I suppose, considering our condition when we first met, I couldn't really blame him.

The night before we reached Kamp Anza had been difficult. Dirt seeped into every nook and cranny of our bodies, clothing, and gear. I could feel it between my toes and on my scalp, like sand after a windy day at the beach. It was only our ninth night en route to Canada, and our 139th mile, but already
I felt farther away from home than I'd ever felt before.

Wind whipped through the canyon where we camped and pummeled our tent all night. Adding to the wind's roar was the constant flapping of our rain fly and periodic showers of sand against the tent walls. Snuggled beneath our shared sleeping bag, we slept fitfully until a gust tore out our tent stakes, causing the whole darn thing to cave in.

“Save the women and children!” Duffy yelled. I awoke with a start, and all restful slumber was ended for the night.

When dawn finally broke, the cold wind hadn't let up and we had to keep moving to stay warm. We didn't pause for breakfast because we had none. We didn't have lunch, a snack, or dinner, either. What we did have was pancake mix—just the mix: no butter, no frying pan. By midmorning, I was starved and thought I'd try making pancakes in our pot. Duffy (being a more experienced cook) tried to talk me out of it, but I stubbornly continued combining flour and water and heating the concoction. The result was lumpy and burnt. I ate it anyway, until I started to feel sick. Duffy gave me a smug look.

“I told you, Chiggy.”

I didn't know it yet, but similar provision miscalculations would plague us for weeks to come. But this was our first experience with hiking hungry, and it would be short (or so I told myself)—just a three-mile hike to a jeep road and then a five-mile road-walk to our next re-supply, at the Hiker's Oasis at Kamp Anza.

When we got to the jeep road, it was as deserted as it was dusty. The desolation was made all the more complete by an absolute lack of street signs, and soon we were lost in a maze of dirt roads, barbed wire fences, and anonymous ranches. The horizon was hazy. I stared at a cow skull strapped to a fence and just couldn't believe how cold it was. The temperature and the terrain didn't match. Duffy plodded stoically a hundred yards ahead. Lagging behind, I stumbled over my numb, Raynaud's-ridden feet and wiped tears of frustration from my eyes.

Farther down the road, as we rested against weathered fence posts, a white car with government plates slowed to a stop beside us. From inside a large woman with long braided hair peered at us suspiciously. She worked
for the IRS and was searching for a local rancher who needed an audit.

“You guys okay?” she asked. We nodded. She seemed about to offer us a ride but then hesitated. “I probably shouldn't pick up hitchhikers in a government car. You guys aren't wackos, are you?” I tried to reassure her of our sanity, but explaining that we were in the process of hiking to Canada didn't seem to help and she drove away.

Many wrong turns later, we arrived at Kamp Anza's Hiker's Oasis. Sitting on the Oasis' front porch, we shared hot chocolate and turkey with ramen noodles with Meadow Ed. While he lectured about what lay ahead, I signed his scrapbook, jotting down my reflections on trail life so far. All told, Meadow Ed and I spent about ten hours making each other's acquaintance, but even by the time we left, I don't think he knew my name. Nope, I was merely “Duffy-me-boy's” girl. Women solo-hikers and women hiking teams got his attention and respect, but the female half of a couple—well, it seemed like she might as well be deadweight, because she clearly wasn't pulling it.