I thought that we were past the worst of the snow. I thought that we would be heading downhill. I thought it would be relatively warm. And then the clouds rolled in. I stood outside of my motel room as thick layers of clouds billowed into the valley. If you’re sensing a pattern at this point, you’re probably correct. I like to think that I know, or at least kind of know how things will go out here on the trail, and many times that doesn’t line up with the reality of the situation as it actually happens. As Raj drove us back to the Deer Springs trailhead, he did his best to encourage us. We stepped out of his SUV and back onto the trail smelling fresh and full of hopeful anticipation for the next leg of our journey as the clouds continued to billow thicker and thicker around us.
First, we just had the several-thousand foot climb, back up Deer Springs trail to the PCT. having spent some substantial amount of time on the trail at this point, we were no strangers to a good climb, and we all had our specific and individual methods for approaching such a stretch of trail. My theory is that, given the specifically defined distance of any given climb, it is most efficient to charge up the hill at a consistently strenuous but sustainable pace. I can outpace most people on an incline but they’ll almost always catch me once the gradient changes. Charging up the mountain, I passed higher and higher through the layers of clouds. Eventually, I overtook the billowing masses and could finally see a reasonable distance out toward the ridges. Passing Suicide Rock, towering above the town of Idyllwild, I could finally see the snow-covered ridges from which I had descended two days before. Little did I know that I would soon be passing along ridges with even more snow and even more treacherous than those had been.
Arriving back to the ridge and the PCT, we turned back north and headed a few miles to a spring – at least water was finally plentiful. Reaching the spring, we considered that we had only covered four PCT miles for the day and decided to keep pushing. There was an established campground in just a few miles and we still had several hours of daylight. It should have been easy. It wasn’t. Only about a mile past the spring, the snow appeared. This wasn’t a patchy snow that comes and goes, but a deep, icy, unending trail, completely covered in slick, frigid, whiteness. At this point, we had no choice but to continue. So down the trail (or at least what we thought was the trail) we trudged, and fell, and slipped, and tripped, at barely one mile per hour. At some point I nearly slid off the hillside, down into the void below. At another point, the guy hiking in front of me did fall and slide off the hillside. Luckily he was able to stop himself and I was able to let him grab my trekking pole to pull himself back up to the trail. I was glad that I still had my micro-spikes. Finally, as darkness began to fall over the mountain, we stumbled into the windiest, coldest tent site of the trail at this point. In the greatest efficiency that anyone has ever witnessed, we set up our tents, scrambled inside for a sense of shelter, and burrowed into our abodes for the night. It was so cold that not only did I eat dinner in my tent, but I also ate in my sleeping bag – a serious and dangerous offense in bear country, but I don’t think there are many bears this far south and even if there were, I don’t think I would’ve cared.
The wind whipped relentlessly all night, but somehow, my tent stayed upright. Waking up, I realized that I was still freezing and decided to eat breakfast from the warmth of my sleeping bag. After nearly freezing my fingers off while taking my tent down, I donned every layer that I had carried in my pack and headed down the trail. Approaching the edge of the ridge and looking down into San Gorgonio Pass, I realized that the clouds that had come pouring into Idyllwild yesterday had now formed a solid ocean to the west that came to an abrupt edge a few miles away. I was walking on an island, 6,000 feet above the valley floor in a sea of clouds. The peaks and ridges around San Jacinto and of San Gorgonio across the desert valley rose above the vast white blanket that covered everything below 5,000 feet. I felt like the lone inhabitant of my island in the sky.
The trail from the campground down Fuller Ridge into San Gorgonio Pass and toward interstate 10 is downhill. When I say this trail is downhill, I mean that there is not hardly a single step of an uphill grade along the entire fifteen miles. The trail skirts the ridge, switching from side to side as it descents, before shifting to the northern face of the San Jacinto massif and switch-backing its way, thousands of feet down, toward the hot, dry, windy valley floor. Along the descent, I passed through almost every environment in Southern California: alpine coniferous forests, dry alpine ridges, burn zones, both old and recent, a few (very few) cool, deciduous oak groves in the heads of a few canyons and valleys, and then finally desert, pure desert. Rocks and lizards and cactuses filled the earth once again, and I realized that I was finally warm.
I also realized on Guthooks (the app that all hikers use as a map and guide along the trail) that there was a point of interest ahead. Clicking it, I discovered that a couple miles ahead lays a “Large Rusted Pipe.” Another feature of Guthooks is that users can leave comments on features that future hikers can see as reference. This feature, however, often becomes an outlet for creativity born of the boredom of walking for many hours every day. Random, unimportant features such as this large rusted pipe often attract the most humorous, elaborate and often vulgar comments of all. I will readily admit that I spent nearly an hour concocting a fitting comment for this specific pipe, only to reach it and find it utterly disappointing. Apparently my definition of large differs from that of the contributors of Guthooks. Sadly, I didn’t even feel it was appropriate to dignify such a landmark with my comment. If it had been larger or generally more impressive, future hikers may have seen a comment such as the following:
“This here, folks, is the finest Large Rusted Pipe that this Tennessee boy has seen west of the Mississippi. I can now complete my journey and return home with tales of this wondrous spectacle.” – Central Time
But alas, this pipe was not worthy of such a comment. I still made sure to get a selfie with it just because.
After filling up on water at a water spigot that I believe was specifically engineered in such a way as to make it nearly impossible to get the stream of water into a narrow-mouth bottle (especially in high winds), we trekked out across the valley floor towards the I-10 underpass. Our plan was simple: camp out under or near the underpass. The desert had other plans. Now I’ve never read the technical definition of what a sandstorm is, but I can assure you from firsthand experience that what we experienced along those long couple miles toward the interstate was one heck of a sandstorm. By now, the wind was blowing fifty to sixty miles per hour sustained, and likely gusting even higher. You could barely even walk without being pushed in whatever direction the wind was going, and any exposed skin was pelted with sand. At one point, a dustdevil passed directly over us, launching anything and everything that wasn’t secured out of our packs. It even pulled a water bottle out of my pack’s side pocket, launching it across the desert. By the time we reached the underpass, we were all thinking the same thing, but no one wanted to be the first to say it: we just wanted out of the weather. The wind was blowing so hard that even the wind turbines had turned themselves off so as not to self-destruct from such high RPMs. Upon inspection, the underpass was less hospitable than anticipated (due to the wind and the local vagrant population) and we ultimately decided to Uber into Banning for the night and share a hotel room. A couple hours later, we were hanging out in the Banning Days Inn with various selections and massive quantities of fast food. We agreed that we had made the right decision. The wind was still howling, but oh what a difference solid walls and a real door make.
The next morning, we tried for a couple hours to get an Uber back to the trail. No luck. Apparently with the Morongo Casino nearby, Uber drivers are cautious about who they pick up. Most of them stay in the Palm Springs area to the east. Checking with the lady at the front desk, we tried calling several taxi services in the area. Still no luck. They either weren’t currently operating or weren’t in the area. Finally, we actually succeeded in securing an Uber and packed all four of us plus our full packs into the back of the car. It was tight. Reaching the trail, someone mentioned that it seemed like it had been forever since we had spent any substantial time on the trail. We were ready to hike, without daily detours back into civilization. The first portion of our day involved hiking up out of the San Gorgonio Pass, through a small wind-farm. Upon reaching the ridge, there were incredible views back toward San Jacinto and San Gorgonio, and the deep and broad valley between the two. Was the wind still howling along the valley floor? Probably, but we didn’t mind because up on the ridge was as calm as could be.
From the ridge, I knew that we were going to descend down toward the Whitewater River, supposedly the largest river crossing along the desert portion of the trail. I was excited. It had been forever since I had seen a substantial river, and even longer since I had visited one on a day hot enough to swim. This day was plenty hot enough. Descending through green valleys and canyons and grassy meadows and slopes, I was waiting for the broad river to come into view; to crest a ridge line and stand in awe of some majestic, rushing river, cascading through the desert. What we found was a small creek. More water flows down the creek behind my backyard after a good rain. This was no river. Nonetheless, We still paused for a substantial lunch, but, disappointingly, could not swim in the few inches of flowing water. Oh well.
Eventually, we decided to push on to camp and, once again, found ourselves having to climb up out of a deep valley. Climbing higher and higher, we eventually found ourselves ridge-walking with 360 degree views. To the south was San Jacinto, snow capped and towering. To the southwest was San Gorgonio, nearly just as high and even broader as a massive, horizon-dominating landmark. To the east, we could see San Gorgonio Pass open up into the broad valley that houses Palm Springs. The interstate, and railroads, and high-voltage power lines led into the distance in that direction. To the north and northwest, however, we could simply see valleys and ridges. No massive peaks, but rather some good ole-fashion wilderness. Nothing particularly special, but intrinsically special because of its apparent lack of the most impressive features that people often look for. That’s ultimately my favorite kind of wilderness. We camped on the banks of Mission Creek – nearly as large as the Whitewater River, plus with no day hikers.
The next day brought a climb. Over the course of 14 miles, we would need to climb from roughly 3,000 feet in elevation to over 8,000 feet, all the way up the valley to its origin at Mission Spring. The interesting thing about climbing thousands of feet up a valley is that you can’t actually discern that you are getting
any higher throughout the day. The ridge lines above stay at the same relative height no matter how high the valley itself climbs. It’s much like running on a treadmill, progress is an abstract concept. Just to make things more interesting, the entire valley was severely eroded. Supposedly, every few years, the valley experiences a massive flash flood that completely wipes out the trail. Traversing the valley, it was apparent that had happened relatively recently. A section of trail would appear, up high on a bank, nearly inaccessible from the creek bank were an overgrown user-trail attempted to climb the valley in the most efficient way possible. I lost the trail many times, but just continued up and would always find it again. Fighting my way through overgrown thickets, blow-downs, and driftwood, and trail selections that don’t connect, I finally reached the top of the valley and a huge campground near the ice-cold spring. 5,000 feet elevation gain in a single day is a lot, but I felt good – it was a good accomplishment. As an added bonus, the wind remained calm all night.
The morning was cold. The 8,000 feet elevation kind of cold. Packing up camp was a quick chore, and I was glad that I had filtered water the night before. Throughout the morning, the trail undulated up and down and up again, but never ascended or descended in any appreciable amount. Towering pines and smaller cedars provided shade and kept me cool on the uphills and sometimes even cold on the downhills. Through the trees, I could see the same peaks that I had been hiking among for nearly a week now, but I could also see a new plateau, full of beautifully blue lakes and vibrant green valleys. I was approaching Big Bear. The forest that I found myself in was a welcome change from the scrubby desert that had remained fairly consistent through the first 250 miles. The trees were far enough apart to allow the wind to pass through and to provide panoramic views through their branches, but close enough together to form a patchwork of shade along the trail.
Shade. Glorious shade! I never realized how rare shade can be. Back home, shade can be found under any tree at most any time of the day. Out here, however, where the distance to the nearest tree of substantial height is quite possibly longer than your morning commute, shade is everything. Out here, shade is a gathering place; a place where community can thrive out of burning sun. Under every tree and pavilion along the trail, you will find countless hikers, just trying not to melt under the brutal sun. You could say that hiking under a consistent covering of shade for most of the day was quite possibly my greatest experience on trail so far.
Because of the combination of easy terrain and the cool forest, I was able to crank through the first dozen miles in an unbroken push, before I finally stopped for a break. At some point during the morning, I passed the 250 mile mark. I was officially almost a tenth of the way to Canada. I could now look at my Garmin map and see actual progress, not just a blob of points in Southern California. About a mile after that landmark, I passed another famous landmark along the PCT – the private zoo. I never thought about it before, but every animal in every tv show, movie, and commercial have to come from somewhere, and this is one of the places that provides such “talent.” The trail passes immediately adjacent to a row of cages that, in years past, have supposedly housed everything from Grizzly Bears to Lions. This year, however, it appeared as if they had decommissioned the cages nearest to the trail and I was unable to see any wildlife.
As I rested after my dozen-mile push, clouds began to roll in; thick, dark-grey clouds. The kind of clouds that usually means rain or snow, or rain and snow, or at the very least a frigid wind preparing to move in. This took me by surprise because, with the exception of the sea of clouds while coming off San Jacinto, this was, by far, the most overcast that the sky had been since arriving in California. It seems like it’s almost always sunny out here. As the clouds rolled in on this particular afternoon, however, it became quickly apparent that these were the cold-front variety. In a matter of minutes, I went from being perfectly comfortable, to wearing both of my jackets and freezing. Nothing ends a break quicker than being cold, so I was up and off again, nearly running down the trail just to try to stay warm. And I finally did warm up. It just took over four miles of sustained jogging.
I finally slowed down as I was nearing a popular spring along the trail, so I slowed down to collect water. Now you may be thinking, what could it be that makes this spring so special compared to every other spring and creek and river along the trail? The answer lies in how easy it is to collect water in any container from this steady flow that emerges from the hillside like a spigot, directly beside the trail. After almost 300 miles, it really is the small things. There was no time to enjoy it, though, as after a five-minute break, I was already freezing again. Our camp for the night was just over four miles from where we would catch a ride into Big Bear tomorrow morning to resupply. It’s weird how your sense of distance changes when you’re traveling on foot. Even though we were still an entire morning’s walk from the trailhead where we would ride into town, we slept less than a mile from the barking dogs and porch lights of the outlying neighborhoods of Big Bear.
I enjoy a good challenge. Many times, I find more joy in doing something the hard way than if I were to use an easier method. Our camp was 4.4 miles from the road, so naturally, I decided to see if I could complete the trip in under 67 minutes, or roughly a 15 minute pace, 4 miles per hour. I decided to do this not necessarily to even prove that I could, I was almost certain that I could. I did it because it would be tough with a full pack and apparently hiking for the last three weeks hadn’t scratched my “let’s do something hard” itch enough. So, with 67 minutes and 4.4 miles between me and our scheduled pick-up from the trailhead, I set out. Correction: I ran out. Normally, without a pack, I can maintain a 15 minute pace without running, but I knew that my pack would slow me down. To combat that, my strategy was to run the downhills and then hoof it up the inclines at a brisk walk. It was a chilly morning, but soon I had stripped down to a single layer. Up over steep ridges and down and around through valleys I stumbled. The sweat was rolling, but I kept pushing. Ultimately, I arrived at the trailhead with three minutes to spare. 4.4 miles in 64 minutes with over twenty pounds on my back: I’ll take it.
Town days are always a welcome relief, but not necessarily relaxing. After being hauled into town by a wonderful trail angel, we set out for laundry and a trip to the grocery store, punctuated by a massive breakfast at Mountain Munchies, a diner-style establishment popular with the locals. After donning our now slightly less rank clothes, it was time to head further into town in search of any fellow hikers that we could find at the popular eateries throughout the area. Reluctant to walk several more miles toward “The Village,” we called a taxi service to pick us up. More specifically, we called a cell phone number that someone had found somewhere that said this guy was willing to shuttle hikers (or anybody really) around the area for cash.
“This guy” happened to be a local with a retired and overused police interceptor Crown Vic, with a taxi sign that he could have dug out of a dumpster perched precariously on the last section of the dashboard that was still in existence. Climbing into the backseat, I reached for the seatbelt, but there was nothing there. Oh good. If there hadn’t have been three of us, I probably wouldn’t have even climbed in. The ceiling fabric flapped in the wind and the seats were filthy. He seemed like a cool guy, though, and at some point took a break from trying to extract some classic 80’s rock from his finicky, hissing stereo to inquire, “Is $10 cool?” I’m not sure what would have happened if we had made a counter-offer. Upon reaching our destination, I reached for the door handle and realized that it was snapped off. Before we knew it, however, he had hopped out into traffic and was opening all our doors for us – top tier accommodations this was.
The rest of the day was spent moseying from food establishment to food establishment, attempting to compensate for our constant caloric deficiencies, and catching up with friends from the trail. It’s amazing how you can hike for a hundred miles out here and never see someone, only to find them in town and discover that you were walking only a couple miles from each other the entire time. The news of the day, and possibly the biggest news of this entire section of trail, came as we sat around the dinner table at the local Himalayan restaurant. Montezuma Valley Market had burned to the ground overnight. Luckily no one was injured, but the loss of that establishment will undoubtedly make that stretch of trail much more difficult for hikers that have yet to come through. Apparently, they were able to save some resupply packages that were being stored and they had been transported to the Warner Springs Community Center. Other resupply boxes, from the sound of it, perished in the inferno. Now I’m not going to make any assumptions here, but I will say that this event only adds to the lore and legend of that fine place. I wasn’t there to experience it myself, but from the stories and descriptions that I have heard, the fire did not come as a surprise to many people. As someone who had visited put it, “It’s just the kinda place where, after staying there, nothing really surprises you anymore. It’s just like ‘ok, that’s completely normal.’” For the proprietors and patrons, in the past and hopefully in the future, I do hope that Montezuma Valley Market is able to rebuild and recover.
After dinner, we called our taxi driving friend, and he was more than happy to haul us back to the trail. “Is $20 cool?” As we rode into the night, talking casually with the man in the drivers seat, I became more comfortable. He, just like everybody else, was trying to make the most out of what he had. He could have just as likely been chauffeuring a limo in LA. This is where he lived, though, so hikers in the back of his Crown Vic was what is was going to be for the foreseeable future. He inquired if it was ok if we stopped by his girlfriend’s place to pick her up for the evening. That would keep him from having to drive back out of his way after he dropped us off. We were fine with it, but pulling up to her apartment, she had apparently skipped town. I could sense the sadness in his voice as we continued on toward the trail, but his spirits weren’t permanently dampened. He still had time to swing by the casino tonight, with an extra $30 thanks to driving the three of us around twice. Opening the back doors for us, he wished us well and thanked us, and then headed out. The slots were waiting. That was his game.
Hiking through the darkness for 2.5 miles to the first campsite, we were glad to be back on the trail. Towns are always enjoyable and a welcome change of pace, but after three weeks, the trail feels like home. Although we sleep somewhere different every night, we have the privilege to get to enjoy this magnificent outdoor experience along this long, winding path all the way to Canada – nearly 2400 more miles to go.
