WARNING: Clothing Optional Hot Springs Ahead

Leaving town is always hard. Even though we had technically already left town, we were still barely two miles from the sweet accommodations of civilization. Plus, the campsite had running water from a spigot and a privy. Why would anyone ever leave? Finally, however, we remembered that Canada probably wasn’t going to come to us and realized that we probably needed to head north. Except we weren’t even heading north anymore. Near Big Bear, the trail turns to the west for nearly 200 miles before it turns back toward the ultimate destination. A necessary route feature for sure, but also slightly annoying. The next few weeks would be spent walking every day and yet getting no closer to the northern border. As I left camp, I reminded myself that at least this portion of the trail, from Big Bear to Wrightwood would be mostly downhill. And then I headed out of camp and began a thousand foot climb.

As I trudged up the incline, my pack hurt. The hip belt seemed to transfer little if any weight to my hips, the the shoulder straps dug painfully into my shoulder bones. Honestly, my pack had been hurting for a while. I always told myself that I just had it a little overloaded with either food or water (or both), and I normally did, but I was beginning to realize that there were other options out there; packs that could carry the load more comfortably. Noticing that I had cell service, I pulled out my phone and searched for an ultimate workhorse of a pack, one of the last traditional external frame packs still in production: the Kelty Trekker. Weighing in at nearly five times the weight of my current pack, what appealed to me was its tried and true bombproof reliability and its load carrying capabilities – nearly three times that of my current pack. As I walked, my pack became more and more uncomfortable. My back and shoulders ached. I dreamed of floating along the trail with a pack that didn’t hurt all the time. I added the Trekker to my cart and almost ordered it right there on the trail, but I stopped myself. It would be an impulse buy. I do a lot of things, but impulse buy isn’t one of them. I decided to think it over.

Throughout the day, I followed the ridge along the crest of the mountains opposite Big Bear Lake from Big Bear City. Looking to my left, I could peer far over the deep, blue waters, and pick out the places that I had been to in town. From the ridge, it all looked so small, down across the lake, framed by the almost melted ski slopes behind the town. By all accounts except my own personal comfort, it was a pleasant day. I was still in the forest, I had magnificent views, the trail surface alternated between pine needles and soft dirt. It’s moments like these, along the trail, that you just wish you could stay in forever. And then you are jerked back into reality by your throbbing shoulders. We ultimately ended up camping at the terminus of a dirt road under towering pines. We even had water nearby. Does it get any better than that?

A good day in he woods can only be improved by good food, and the next day brought just that. The morning brought a nice path through a small valley with a creek, the trail swapping from side to side over the creek. I wanted to just sit at the creek and take it all in, but I had Cedar Glen Malt Shop on my mind. We knew that it was nearly 2.5 miles, one way, off the trail to get there. We knew it was a long, hot, entirely uphill roadwalk. We knew that it would take nearly a half day away from our time on trail. And yet, we were so excited just at the prospect of a cheeseburger and a milkshake. Arriving at the Deep Creek bridge (a massive footbridge over the most substantial creek of the entire trail up to this point), we hid our packs under a tree and headed up the road. We had been told that it was all uphill, but even that was almost an understatement. Starting at the bottom of the valley, at the creek, we climbed straight up to the road and then straight up the road. Unrelentingly inclined up toward the sky, we reached the malt shop at the very top of the hill. By the very top, I mean that the building couldn’t have been built any higher on this particular hill.

Walking into the restaurant, we were immediately struck by the ‘50s American diner vibe. Blue Suede Shoes rocked from the speakers and 45s lined the walls, punctuated by the occasional picture of Elvis or some classic car. Opening the menu, we were surprised to see that even the burgers were named after classic American cars that roughly corresponded to the nature of the burger. I decided on a Buick Roadmaster, a massive double bacon cheeseburger with all the extras. When it arrived, it was indeed a land-yacht of a burger. That kind of “I don’t know how to eat this thing” burger. I didn’t let that stop me, though, and had it gone, along with a basket of fries and a chocolate shake, in under ten minutes. Per my expert evaluation, the quality of this burger wasn’t quite at the same level as Paradise Valley Cafe had been, but the sheer heft of the burger (and the surprisingly low prices) are what ultimately made this my favorite trail burger up to this point. After ordering a second chocolate shake for the long walk back down the hill, we headed back down to camp.

Passing approximately five hundred “No Trespassing” signs, we made our way back down the creek. Retrieving our packs, we then secured a first-class campsite on the sandy bank of the creek, under the bridge. For the first time of the entire trail, we were near enough water to wade out into, enough water to wash our clothes out in, enough water for me to almost forget that I was still in the desert. For that night, though, I was in heaven. There’s nothing like hearing water flow from your sleeping bag in the middle of the night. As evening deepened, ducks splashed in the cool currents and dragonflies hovered over the shallow pools. I could have stayed there for a year. Life doesn’t get much better than that right there.

At some point in the night, I awoke to a large spider climbing noisily up the mesh of my tent’s door (it’s weird what wakes you up out here). I flicked him off, into the darkness, then thought: “oh crap, he’s gonna be somewhere in my gear in the morning.” I awoke in daylight, and discovered that he had indeed plotted his revenge in my left shoe, a dense web filled the opening. In case you don’t know, I’m not the biggest fan of spiders. I appreciate that they catch and eat so many bugs, but many times I just wish they were less “spidery.” Taking a small stick, I cleared the web out of my shoe; no spider. I poked around inside the shoe with the stick; no spider. I shook the shoe as hard as I could; no spider. “Maybe he’s not in there anymore.” I finally got brave and stuck my hand inside, sweeping toward the heel. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a not particularly small Black Widow spider appeared briefly, before scrambling back into its newfound lair. Startled would be putting it lightly. I was a little shaken. After a few choice words directed at the spider, it was now time for battle. Taking the shoe, I crushed it as hard as I could and beat it with rocks until I was sure that no living thing could have survived. It was then that the Black Widow proceeded to roll out of the shoe and attempted to crawl away before I crushed it with a rock. I don’t like spiders. I really don’t like spiders that can do serious, physical harm. Any combination of the above that decides to set up shop in my shoe, or any of my gear for that matter, better have a death wish.

Adrenaline still flowing from my morning altercation, I set out down the trail. Following along the creek, it was a pleasant walk, and was made even more pleasant by the fact that it was mostly downhill. Pausing briefly at the mile 300 marker, I checked Guthooks and noticed an alert ahead. I clicked it, and what I read next said “Warning: Clothing optional hot springs ahead.” I had to read it a couple times before I could confirm that it really said what I thought it said. I knew this was California and all, but this was taking it to the next level. I brought it to the attention of the group I was hiking with, and they confirmed that we were apparently approaching a hot springs area popular with the locals as a skinny-dipping destination. Now us thru hikers are known for our unusual and uncivilized social behavior, but even we (at least the great majority of us) prefer to keep our clothes on in public settings. We apprehensively hiked on, not sure what we would find around the next corner.

As it turns out, we found a whole lot of nothing. Apparently arriving before noon on a weekday means that it’s mostly just thru hikers roasting in their own soup in the various hot pools, all sufficiently clothed. It was an interesting area. Hot springs gushed from the rocks surrounding the creek, down into pools, some natural and some man-made, resulting in a pool for almost any temperature ranging from luke-warm to scalding (the Crab Cooker pool). Quickly, we identified a large pool as having the optimum temperature, and soon had nearly a dozen hikers hanging around a single pool. Eventually, some day hikers and tourists did arrive, but even then, there wasn’t enough nudity to justify the warning. I hear afternoons and weekends are completely different.

After several hours, we reluctantly headed out, and made our way on down the canyon. As we walked, we passed rocks and cliff faces completely and utterly defaced by graffiti. We were no doubt very near to Las Angeles and all the perks that come from being close to such a wonderfully grimy city. At the mouth of the canyon, the trail descended to a wide, Army Corps of Engineers flood control dam, nearly a hundred feet high and a couple hundred yards across. I couldn’t help but think that if the water ever gets that high, there’s going to be some serious problems. At the far end, the entire creek has been diverted from its original path, into a pipe, nearly thirty feet in diameter and capped with a massive steel cage. Passing underneath the dam and out of sight, I would bet that this entire creek is now used to water the lawns of millionaires living in that sprawling metropolis to the southwest. Never mind the miles of valley floor that’s no longer hospitable since the diversion of every ounce of water in Southern California in the name of flood control and sustainability. As long as they have enough water to have their groundskeepers hose the dust off their palm trees every morning and evening, everything’s good. After a long dry slog up the ridge toward camp, I realized that we had reached 318 miles. I had now travelled further on this journey than I ever had on any other journey before.

Waking up to pain, I realized my failure to protect myself from the sun during my time at the hot springs the day before. My strategy of complete sun-avoidance through the desert had finally backfired in the form of my typically covered pale skin being scorched to a char by a relatively short period of exposure to the fierce desert rays. Considering the prospect of toting my pack on my back for fifteen to twenty miles just made me regret my actions from the day before even more. I did, however, finally hoist my pack and grunted my way down the trail. As I walked, I seemed to barely make any forward progress. I spent more time and more miles weaving in and out of endless washes and valleys than I spent actually progressing down the primary ridge that the trail attempted to follow. Walking along, I noticed a peculiar property of the broad valley to my right: Noises from across the valley seemed to be somehow amplified to several times louder than they would be if they were a mile or so closer. At various points, I could hear dogs barking and people talking on the opposite edge of the valley as loud and as clear as if they were standing right next to me. A helicopter that came racing across the valley emerged several miles away as a deafening roar and strangely became quieter as it headed toward me. None of this, however, could distract me from the pain on my skin and the fact that progress was slow.

After a couple hours, I finally did conquer that particular ridge, and crossing over it, descended slightly to follow the shoreline of Silverwood Lake. Another massive (but possibly successful) example of Southern California’s glaring resource management struggles. Silverwood Lake is a large, man-made, recreational lake that provides water to the surrounding communities and sits at the center of a state park of the same name. As I began to roughly trace the outline of its numerous bays and inlets, I couldn’t deny its beauty. An oasis in the desert it truly is. Birds fluttered and called to their mates. Bees hummed around bunches of vibrant plants. Dragonflies darted here and there in a great hurry. Various small, furry creatures peered at me cautiously through the undergrowth, before escaping into their green maze when I got too close for comfort. Gnats, normally the great nuisance of the insect world, hovered around my face, but I didn’t mind. I had spent so many days in the rugged, sparse desert that the sight of so much life and vibrancy brought me genuine joy. Until a gnat decided to fly into my eye, then battle was on. I only followed the lakeshore for several miles, and soon returned to a more arid environment, but the joy that so much life and vibrance and activity brought me as I walked beside that lake followed me for the rest of the day.

I woke up to dripping. Was it raining? No. But it felt like it was. My tent, it seemed, was dumping condensation into my sleeping bag by the gallon. How could I be camped in a sandy desert valley and have so much moisture collected in my 23 square feet of living space? Needless to say, there’s better ways to start the morning. After about an hour of Operation Extract-The-Water-From-Your-Gear-So-You-Don’t-Have-To-Carry-Ten-Pounds-Of-Extra-Weight, I finally crammed everything into my pack and turned my thoughts toward something happier: food. Today was the day; the day we had all been waiting for. Today, there would be a McDonald’s a mere half-mile from the trail. At this point, it’s almost an official spur of the PCT. If you don’t detour a mile round-trip to cram your backpack full of McDoubles, I’m not sure if you can really call yourself a thru hiker. My original plan had been to arrive at the tail end of breakfast, so that I could take advantage of both breakfast and lunch. My condensation issue, however, had resulted in a later than expected start to the morning, so I ended up arriving just after breakfast had ended. Oh well. I ordered six McDoubles with no mustard or ketchup (less soggy) and called it a day. I should have ordered eight. By the time I reached the trail again, I was down to four. As I was leaving, I could hear surprised whispers from the patrons behind me “did you see that guy just order six burgers?” I wanted to turn around and say “Yes sir. You want to see me eat them all right here, right now, and then order six more to go?” but I counted it against my better judgement and kept walking.

Leaving the great culinary motherland that is McDonald’s, I passed through several interesting areas. The first, was the underpass under interstate 15. Underpass is really too generous. It’s a large drainage tunnel, about forty feet in diameter, and even better, it’s built in an arc so you can’t see the other end when you enter it. Those two hundred yards of dark trail were the only stretch of trail I’ve experienced up to this point where I wouldn’t have been surprised to stumble over a dead body, or to get jumped and become one myself. It doesn’t look near as dark as it really was in pictures. It was rather frightening. Leaving the underpass alive, I then passed by an area of abandoned cars, appliances, and other random objects. Not simply a junkyard, that would have made too much sense, this area seemed to have been something official at some point. Maybe a park or gathering place of some kind, where things gradually collected and then were suddenly abandoned to let cactus and an apparent vagrant population overtake the area. Finally, I passed over and under several railroad tracks while making my way up and over several ridges. Given the unique geography of the area, the tracks have been built to form a nearly 360 degree loop to make their way around and through several large rock formations. There is a bench up on a ridge that overlooks the entire area, where you can sit and watch the trains come from both directions every ten to fifteen minutes, squealing and twisting and winding their way around the massive loops. For someone who has always been intrigued by trains, it was rather enjoyable to just sit and watch for a while.

We soon reached a well-stocked water cache, and after a substantial break and topping off our bottles, the rest of the afternoon was climbing. Uphill. Never ending. Climbing. It was one of those climbs where I just plugged my earbuds in, cranked the volume up, and refused to check how far I’d gone until my current playlist was over. Even struggling up the hill, through, I was still struck by the beauty of the area. The morning had been overcast in the lower elevation, but as I climbed, I began to enter into the layer of clouds. Climbing a little bit higher, I was fully engulfed in an ocean of clouds. A little higher still, and I began to peek above the water, above the glistening surface, and out across the sea towards the horizon. Finally, I was walking on a network of islands above a smooth but foamy sea. The mountaintops shimmered in the evening glow. Reaching the top of the ridge, I paused to finish my last four McDoubles as a celebratory snack, and then continued another mile to camp and cook a proper dinner. As I set up my tent in the saddle of a ridge, I could see snow-capped peaks in one direction, and warm, sunny, desert valleys in the other direction – the beauty of spring in the desert.

The following morning, I found myself walking through a pine forest, high above the clouds still hovering below. This has quickly become my favorite environment of the trail. There is just a feeling of peace and stillness that comes from being somewhat insulated from whatever activity is inevitably happening in the valley below. I knew that soon I would have no choice but to turn down off the PCT, onto the Acorn Trail, and descend once more down into the valley to resupply in Wrightwood. To say I had mixed feelings about it would be an understatement. Quickly, however, my desire for food that doesn’t come in a packet overcame any unshakable fondness for the current alpine views, and I found myself, like many times before, racing toward town. Real food and a real bed is a real big temptation out here.

Upon my entry into town, the day consisted of an expensive trip to the grocery store, hanging out with the crew at our Airbnb for the afternoon (the cheapest available hotel in this lovely town was over $300 per night), ordering a 16” pizza for dinner (“The Raccoon” – it comes with everything) and trying to eat the entire thing in one sitting. I was ultimately unsuccessful. The next day, we decided to take a zero and tasked ourselves with visiting as many more of the small town’s delicious restaurants as possible. By evening, we had exhausted nearly all the options and defaulted to having one of the guys in our group cook one of his signature pasta dishes. It turned out even better than most of the restaurants had been. After an entertaining night with friends, it was morning again and we were finally ready to head back to the trail. “Ready” may be to strong a word. We knew we needed to head back to the trail. The frigid cold that had set in overnight didn’t make things easier, but in all our winter gear, we began the climb, back up the mountain, back towards the PCT.