Blistered Kind Of Love (9 page)

In these first few days of hiking, we discovered that freeze-dried meals, while surprisingly tasty, do funny things to the GI tract. A couple of hours after a meal, we'd erupt into such a gaseous concerto. My booming bass and Angela's tender soprano must have delighted our wilderness audience of lizards and the like. Before our trip, I thought Angela was incapable of a fart. On the trail, I was relieved to discover that she was capable of quite melodious, if not pleasantly aromatic, flatulence. It was starting to look like our trip might turn into the
Long Summer's Fart
. Thankfully, though, we were fart-free that evening, which allowed us to explore Julian without offending the locals.

The next evening, we began our most challenging stretch of trail thus far, a 23.8-mile waterless trek through the San Felipe Hills to Barrel Springs Campground. For the first time we were in true desert, the Anza-Borrego. We began in high spirits, refreshed by our day off, and made good progress in the twilight up Granite Mountain. The only impediment to our buoyant mood was our water supply. We'd been unexpectedly unable to supplement it at a “water cache” at Scissors Crossing, the intersection of Highways S2 and 78, at the base of the San Felipe Hills. Trail angels and PCT-friendly locals maintain a number of water caches along dry sections of the trail. Cache locations are advertised on the Internet and propagated by word of mouth. We had no difficulty finding the Scissors Crossing cache, the first on the northbound PCT, but were dismayed when we saw that it was completely dry. More than forty plastic one-gallon jugs lay in the sand, bone dry, pointlessly secured by a rubber-coated serpentine chain and lock.

It is in part because of experiences like ours that water caches are controversial in the long-distance hiking community. Critics note that hikers are more likely to engage in irresponsible water-carrying practices if they know of caches along the trail. If these hikers carry less water than recommended (two gallons per day) over a waterless stretch and then find an empty cache, the result could be quite thirsty indeed. Long-distance hiking “purists” (a term Angela explains at length later) also charge that water caches detract from
the natural challenge of the trail and make it more accessible to hikers who perhaps aren't properly equipped, mentally or physically, for the task. Of course, most hikers are overjoyed at the sight of a water cache, and the presence of one at a location like Scissors Crossing can save them either a trip into town to re-supply or from carrying two days' worth of water. We arrived
from
town, but had done so without a full store of water, counting (irresponsibly) on the presence of a cache.

But for the time being we had enough water to maintain hydration, so I focused my attention on the changing habitat. Here in the “true” desert, chaparral gave way to cacti, yucca plants, and agave—asparagus-shaped plants rising four to eight feet in height. We switchbacked past a forest of ocotillo shrubs, plants that the guidebook described as a “bundle of giant, green pipe cleaners.” Octillo shrubs spend most of their lives covered with spiny and lifeless branches, but perhaps half a dozen times a year, always two to three days after a rainstorm, they “sprout vibrant green clusters of delicate leaves along their entire length.” The ocotillo is a perfect example of the unique adaptation seen in the desert environment. With less than two weeks of rain a year, and summer temperatures of up to 120 degrees, it is incredible that much of anything can live out there, but on that evening the San Felipe Hills were bursting with highly specialized life.

After three miles of energetic hiking we found a cozy and scenic campsite on a dry creek bed, surrounded on three sides by granite boulders. With our tent snuggled in between the boulders, it was like being in a sauna—the rocks, after absorbing the sun's heat all day, now radiated it. We hung our sweaty clothes on them and sat down to admire the view west across San Felipe Valley to the lush Volcan Mountains. From our boulder-protected perch, the Volcans looked tantalizingly wet and green. An extension of the Laguna Mountains, the Volcans act as a barrier to cool and moist air moving east from the Pacific Ocean. Coastal air settles and precipitates on the mountains, spawning a verdant tapestry. On the eastern side of the mountains only hot, dry air remains, and in this air the San Felipes bake day after day. Unfortunately for hikers, the trail does not pass through the Volcans. Back in the PCT's planning stages, the Forest Service wasn't able to convince private landowners
to allow the trail to be routed through the Volcans and instead had to plan this waterless stretch through the Anza-Borrego.

The next day, I was cursing those landowners and the U.S. Forest Service as a pleasant early morning walk along gradual switchbacks turned into a steamy, shadeless midday trudge. It seemed ironic to me that the Forest Service went to great lengths to protect the mating grounds of the Arroyo toad but didn't seem overly concerned about hikers dying of heat stroke in the Anza-Borrego Desert. Even with an early afternoon nap under a few tall shrubs and the discovery of an unexpected water stash near the W-W Ranch, we were thirsty, dirty, and exhausted when we finally reached Barrel Springs Campground after a twenty-one-mile day.

The “springs” were not the vision of refreshment that I'd dreamed of all afternoon. In fact, they were nothing more than a pipe-fed concrete tub that was home to an extended family of tadpoles. I was disappointed but in no mood to complain; and complaining wouldn't have helped produce a tadpole-free oasis. So I sat on the edge of the tub and cleaned up as best I could.

Several hours after our arrival at Barrel Springs, with twilight deepening and dinner on the stove, two hikers arrived. They stumbled into camp, heads down and postures screaming defeat. They were so exhausted that they barely acknowledged arriving at their destination and only glanced at the spring-tub before throwing their packs down on a flat spot and collapsing.

We were up early the next morning, attempting to get a jump on the heat of the day. The late-night stragglers were also packing their gear. I recognized them as a couple we'd seen from a distance, camped near the Scissors Crossing water stash. They both looked to be in their mid-twenties and sported matching hiking shirts—long-sleeve, white, button-down, polyester ones, seeped with dirt.

“Hikers?” asked the lanky fellow. He had the scruffy beginnings of a trail beard and wore a tight shell necklace.

“Yeah. I'm Angela and this is Duffy.”

“Hey, I'm Chris. When'd y'all start?”

“May eighth, and you?” I asked with trepidation.

“May tenth.” Yikes, these two were really moving; no wonder they'd looked so worn out the previous evening.

“Where are y'all from?”

“Philly, you?”

“I'm from Texas. This is my girlfriend, Stacey; she's from Pittsburgh,” he said, pointing toward his hiking partner, a blond with a long, single braid and a friendly, slightly cherubic face.

“Why are y'all hiking the PCT? Why not the AT, seeing that you're from out that way?”

We'd heard this question before. Angela launched into our well-practiced response: The Appalachian Trail is too crowded; we didn't really care for the summer humidity in the east; the Sierra Nevada is incredibly beautiful; the PCT offers so many open vistas, et cetera, et cetera.

“Y'all hiking light?” Chris asked.

“Well, not really. We haven't really perfected the system yet.”

“Yeah, it's difficult, isn't it?” exclaimed Stacey. “We've tried really hard—not carrying a tent and making one of those tuna-can alcohol stoves—but my pack still seems heavy.”

“Stacey even left behind the deodorant. Not that I can tell much of a difference; she smells either way.”

“Chris!”

“Stacey, you told me you was an earthy girl. And if that's true I am obligated to treat you like dirt. What'd ya expect?”

“Ignore him.”

“Did you guys find any water at Scissors Crossing?” I asked.

“Yeah, there wasn't much left. We took the last four gallons and camped under that cottonwood.”

“
Four
gallons?” I was shocked; we'd never carried more than two gallons at one time. Greedy water hoarders—they'd grabbed the last of the Scissors Crossing stash. I was a little irritated, but no harm was done and they seemed nice enough, so I decided not to hold a grudge.

That morning we hiked in tandem with Chris and Stacey, and our conversation, like several previous and many to follow, turned to the hiking business: itinerary lengths, water purification techniques, footwear choices, and other topics that a normal pedestrian would find numbingly esoteric. I eventually found solace in this routine. Such conversations validated the trip and the months of planning. It was encouraging to know that we weren't alone in considering the delicate pros and cons of water filtration versus iodine treatment and that some hikers were willing to spend entire afternoons building alcohol stoves out of soda cans. With long-distance hiking, comfort is found in others' reassurance that you're not completely crazy.

Over the next few days we ran into Chris and Stacey frequently, and although they'd gained ground on us before Barrel Springs, we were starting to find our trail legs and were now moving at a comparable pace. Shared snack breaks and campsites gave us the opportunity to learn more about them and to practice our trail jargon.

Stacey had met Chris in his native Texas while working for the Student Conservation Association. Through her work, Stacey had met many forest ranger and backpacker types, and she'd developed an interest in long-distance hiking. It wasn't too hard to convince Chris, unemployed at the time, to join her, so they'd hiked nine hundred miles of the Appalachian Trail the previous summer and now were gunning for a Pacific Crest thru-hike. At least, Stacey, with her detailed re-supply spreadsheet and itinerary, was gunning; as far as I could tell, Chris was along for the walk. He did a lot of the talking, but it was pretty clear who ran the show.

Listening to Chris' frequent talk, I noticed that we all shared not only a common trail language, but also an immediate (and exciting) goal—reach the next re-supply and trail angel operation, “Hiker's Oasis,” at Kamp Anza. We zipped through Warner Springs and meandered along Agua Caliente creek before falling behind Chris and Stacey near Tule Canyon, where Angela and I spent a cold and windy night. The next day we battled our way through the outskirts of Anza to Hiker's Oasis.

Kamp Anza is an RV park approximately five miles off-trail in the middle-of-nowhereville, also known as Anza, California. One hundred and forty-four
miles into the Pacific Crest Trail, Kamp Anza was our first mail re-supply point. We'd chosen Kamp Anza, rather than Warner Springs, thirty-four miles to the south, because we'd heard good things about Hiker's Oasis, an RV trail angel site run by Paul and his wife, Pat. By the time we arrived, we'd been fully whipped by the cool Anza winds and were relieved to take shelter on the front porch of the Oasis. The porch looked out over a luscious green lawn, the only one around for miles and miles, home to a potpourri of tents and tarps and presided over by a large American flag. Paul and Pat were the only somewhat permanent residents of Kamp Anza and therefore had a unique incentive to cultivate and maintain a lawn and garden in otherwise arid surroundings. So, in a very real sense, their lawn was an oasis—perhaps not one that normal people would choose to take holiday at, but a hiker's oasis nonetheless. As evidenced by the collection of mobile nylon on the lawn, we were not alone. Joining us at the Oasis were seven other hikers, including Chris and Stacey, and one itinerant trail angel, known simply as Meadow Ed.

Meadow Ed did not resemble an angel in most respects; he was more Santa Claus-like than angelic in appearance—a round fellow, round in the face and very round in the belly. Ed's face was insulated by a whitish-gray and rather unruly beard, which distracted from his lightly haired scalp. His narrow eyes were nearly hidden behind bulging cheeks and round spectacles. Meadow Ed's belly hung proudly and unobstructed over squat legs contained in loose sweat pants. All in all, he was a picture nearly antithetical to that of a long-distance hiker—which was appropriate, because although Ed enjoyed hanging out with hikers, he didn't appear to be much of a hiker anymore. Ed normally based his trail angel work out of Kennedy Meadows, in the Sierra, but when he heard that Pat had left the Oasis for a couple weeks during prime hiker season (for family reasons), Ed had traveled south to give Paul a hand.

While Paul puttered inside, Ed oriented us to the laundry and washroom facilities and laid out the rules of the house. We were
not
allowed inside the RV without an invitation from Paul; we were
not
to sleep on the deck; we were
not
to drink, cuss, or smoke; and most importantly, we were
not
to threaten the vitality of the Oasis by pissing on the lawn. It was immediately clear that Ed himself was perhaps not setting such a good example; his breath held the
scent of whiskey. But, minutes later, I forgave him the inconsistency when he produced two steamy cups of hot chocolate, a big bowl of ramen topped with turkey gravy, and a basket of garlic bread. We dug in aggressively, occasionally taking a breath to chat with our fellow hikers. After our shoveling slowed, Ed extracted our hiking résumés. Upon hearing that we were babes in the long-distance hiking world, he set about educating us. I never did figure out exactly how much of the trail Ed had hiked, but from the beginning it was easy to see that he was heavily invested in spreading its lore.