The Day the Wind Blew

As I walked down the sidewalk in Julian, California, I heard a voice behind me, “What’s up, man?”
I spun around, slightly startled, “Hey! How’s it going?”
“Living the dream, man. What’s your backpack for?”
“I’m thru hiking the PCT.” I had a sense of what would come next.
“What?”
“I’m hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, it goes from the Mexican border to the Canadian border.”
The description of distance must have got his attention, “Duuuude!!!! Right ooonnn!!! Are you walking it?”
“Yep.” I had assumed that was implied when I said I was hiking it but I guess he had wanted to clarify.
Then came the obligatory declaration, “That’s, like, a long way to walk!”
“Yes it is.”
“That’s, like……”
He hesitated so I felt it appropriate to clarify, “2650 miles, roughly.”
“DUUUUUUDE!!!!! That’s, like, a long way to walk! Do you have to walk it all?” This question became more interesting given the way he had phrased it. Do I have to? No. But if I didn’t want to I wouldn’t be out here.
“I guess I don’t have to… but I want to.”
“Bro!! You’re crazy, man!!”
I respect people who call it like they see it “I guess I am. There’s a lot of other crazy people out there with me though.”
While maybe more animated than most, that’s how most of my conversations with people in town progressed. Surprise, confusion, and a tinge of disbelief underscore most exchanges. Maybe I am crazy for doing this, but if I’m crazy then at least I’m with a bunch of other crazy people out here doing the same thing. Perhaps I’m out here with a bunch of folks that just happen to be the same kind of crazy as me.

Almost every experience in life presents an opportunity to learn something new. For some experiences, however, the opportunities are more plentiful than others. As it turns out, embarking on a 2650 mile journey on foot has a way of saying, “Yeah. You think you know what you’re doing? Watch this!” When those opportunities arise, it is typically a good idea to learn as quick as possible, otherwise you’re just making life unnecessarily difficult. By my very nature, I am a particularly stubborn individual, so the lessons that I have learned so far have been slow and tedious in progress. Progress, however, is ultimately what matters. Without progress, I probably would have blown off the mountainside, tent and all, last night. Lessons from this first section of trail include the fact that the desert is hot, breezy, and dry. Surprising, I know.

The desert is windy. Not the refreshingly cool breeze type of wind either. No. My journey through this first stretch of Southern California desert has been a breezy one to say the least. To be more specific, the trail apparently feels the need to sand blast me and most other hikers on a regular basis. Not because my ever-growing stench is ever particularly cured or even reduced by such drastic measures, but simply for the fun of making my uphill-into-the-wind journey even slower. I am aware that I may be making the desert, the PCT, or both seem like an unenjoyable, inhospitable place, but that is not my intention. My intention, is to share the experience of the trail, the good and bad, in an unbiased, unfiltered manner. Not every day out here is the most incredible day of your life, but every day is unique and worth experiencing nonetheless.

Surprisingly, my first day on the trail was not windy. Climbing the small hill to the Mexican border and the terminus, I was quickly winded. Oh good. This hill is barely a couple hundred feet high. This already didn’t bode well for the coming days. A beautifully clear morning, the trail and the land were on their best behavior. I had met another hiker on the bus to Campo, and we had decided to join forces, at least for the first stretch. After clambering up on the terminus monument for the obligatory day one photos, we spoke to a couple of PCTA volunteers and a trail angel. Everyone spoke of the leisure of life on the trail and the carefree routine. I don’t recall any mention of the blazing heat, howling wind, and long, arduous water carries. “This will be the greatest experience of your life” was the sentiment behind most of their comments. I think they were right, but boy did we not have a clue what we were getting ourselves into.

We would soon find out exactly what we had signed up for.

The desert is dry. And hot. Who knew? At a little over four miles, we came to our last water supply until Lake Morena at mile twenty. Not knowing exactly what to expect, we both collected five liters. We dreaded it at the time. It seemed like dead weight in our packs. Our goal for the night was Hauser Creek (dry) at the bottom of Hauser Canyon, or roughly fifteen miles. A combination of our late start and the unexpected ruggedness of the trail ultimately limited us to just over eleven miles for that first day. What had we gotten ourselves into? I seemed to remember someone once mentioning something along the lines of “don’t underestimate those first couple days.” I wish I had listened closer to whoever that person was and whatever they had to say. After a slow descent and then a dreadfully hot ascent out of the canyon the next morning, I huffed and puffed my way into the Lake Morena campground totally exhausted. This was already harder than expected and I was only at mile twenty.

Lake Morena, or rather Morena Village, was the first sign of general civilization along the trail. “Town” is being generous, they have a store and a stop sign. As I found myself trudging into town around midday of day two, I was tired, I was sore, and I was thirsty, but more than anything, I was hungry. Making straight for the store, I ordered a double bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake. The lady looked around and replied that they were out of buns. I really didn’t care, white bread it is. I would have eaten anything. The burger was massive (and paired with a substantial basket of fries and a large milkshake), but I still could have downed about three. After a substantial lunch while enjoying the company of some fellow hikers and a resident “trail expert,” I returned to the campground to let my food digest. The campground, to a hiker, was an oasis. Coin showers, flushing toilets, even picnic tables with a pavilion for shade. Does it get any better? I stayed for a while, talking with other hikers and enjoying the shade before I (foolishly) decided to “try and get a few more miles.”

After a few miles, I located the perfect campsite. It was hidden from the trail, just down the hill. It had rocks to sit on and to set stuff on. It had a perfect windbreak to the southwest, the shrubs reaching nearly seven feet high in a solid wall. It even had postcard worthy views of the setting sun, in all its beauty, down over the distant ridges and the lake. What I had neglected to realize, however, was that my solitary vantage point for viewing the sunset was atop a sloped slab of rock that came all the way from the top of the ridge to the northeast, all the way down into my camp area. My tent was setup broadside at the base of the slope, perfectly protected from every other angle. I enjoyed the evening and went to bed. Roughly ten minutes later, the wind decided to have some fun. In sudden bursts, gusts began ripping down the rock slope, directly into my tent.

Now, I’ve never claimed to be the best at staking out a tent, but I’ve done it enough to know what I’m doing. I’m also the type of person who thought it would be worth the weight savings to use a non-freestanding tent that, without proper staking, cannot stand on its own. Within minutes, my tent was fully collapsed and full-sail attempting to go airborne with the voracity of an umbrella on a windy beach. We’ve all seen it. Crawling out of my parasail, I attempted to right it. With the correct tension, I indeed succeeded in making it stand against the wind, however, it now insisted on floating about a foot off the ground, interior furnishings and all, straining at its lines. I stumbled around, finding a suitably hefty rock for each stake before finally calling it as “good enough” and crawling in. Under my weight, it settled back on the ground, and I attempted to sleep. The next time I awoke, the tent was (amazingly) still standing, but I had rolled off my pad that was now twisted in the wind, wrapped vertically around my body. All other contents of the tent were piled on top of me. I simply yanked the pad back under me and attempted to ignore the roaring cyclonic winds on the other side of my sil-nylon abode.

Incredibly, after taking inventory the next morning, all my possessions were accounted for, and after about an hour, the wind died down. The trail followed the ridge down and eventually became content in the valley. As I approached Boulder Oaks and I-8, I was greeted by trees!!! Not the short, stunted, scrubby trees that somehow thrive along the rocky ridges, but mature oak trees! While I was content with the sight of some of my favorite ecological features, I was overjoyed to experience the shade that these ancient giants provided. In fact, I enjoyed the shade so much that I became cold and unmotivated to carry any water from the campground spigot. I knew there was a creek further up the trail in a few miles and opted to save some weight. That was mistake number one. Mistake number two came when I walked right on past that creek. I never even saw it. At the top of the next ridge there was a road crossing and a trail angel with about a gallon left. I was too embarrassed to take any. About ten miles later I finally reached our camp for the night beside a creek and practically dove in. It was only about an inch deep, (as many streams and creeks and rivers out here seem to be) but it was cold. I learned my lesson that day: always take advantage of every single water source out there.

I reached the small community of Mt Laguna the next day, and was immediately drawn, like all other hikers, moth-to-a-flame-style to the single restaurant in town. A well-known establishment along the PCT, it had apparently changed hands last year and was now run by a French couple. Even the wait staff was French. According to a hiker who had been there before, the improvement of food quality was substantial. I treated myself to an omelet which would rival any plate of food, anywhere, anytime, in size and then attempted to motivate myself to keep moving. What convinced me to leave was ultimately the beauty of the high alpine coniferous forest (a welcome rarity in Southern California) that I had passed through on my way into town. Little did I know that heading out of town would take me back out into the dry, dusty desert, home of more types of cacti than I knew existed. Along ridges and through washes I travelled, gifted with views of the even hotter valleys several thousand feet below. That was eventually where I was headed. I ended up camping that night by a water spigot near a trailhead, along with at least 25 other hikers. On this section of trail, scarcity of water pushes hikers into “bubbles” that congregate at each water source before moving on the the next. Anyone unlucky enough to find themselves needing to camp ten or more more miles from water is just out of luck out here.

I awoke the next morning to terrible allergies and a great yearning for another one of Mt Laguna’s finest omelets. I found relief for the former in my medicine stash, but the latter went uncured, even after a bowl of instant oatmeal. Once I started walking, I felt strong, stronger than I had yet felt on the trail. Almost as if my trail legs were starting to form. I decided to push for a big day. That would give me a short day tomorrow into Scissors Crossing with time to get into Julian to resupply before everything closed for Easter Sunday. I had a plan, now I just had to execute it.

Luckily, the trail gifted me with sweeping views at every turn throughout the day. That tends to keep my mind off my aching feet. I passed unknown valleys and basins, some with no visible human impact and others with what looked like huge military bases. All of them were incredible to peer down toward from over 4000 feet higher along the ridge. For a short section, the trail followed an old road bed that was originally built through the mountains to bring mail to San Diego. I was glad for the aging concrete wall through this section because on the other side was a shear drop of several thousand feet and certain death. I’m not afraid of heights, but I do have a healthy fear of falling to my death. Needless to say I stayed far from the crumbling edge. Near the end of the day, I reached a cistern with water and it occurred to me just how long it had been since I had collected water from a natural source – around mile 30. I was now approaching mile 70. That’s the desert for you. I pushed a few more miles before finding a particularly exposed and windy site on the side of a cliff, but I was exhausted and darkness was quickly approaching so I didn’t mind too much. I promptly ate everything in sight and passed out. A 22.6 mile day will do that to you.

My entry day into Julian turned out to be a culmination of every other day that I had experienced so far. It was windy, it was hot, it was surprisingly steep, and yet I didn’t mind. I was headed to town. I was headed to food. I was headed to a shower. Down the ridge I marched, into the valley, across the scorching, sandy floor of the valley, toward Scissors Crossing. I reached the famous bridge (famous by PCT standards at least, it’s a little more than a short bridge over a dry creek bed.) by late morning. Before I knew it, I was in the back seat of an older couple’s Toyota Tacoma, speeding up the canyon towards Julian.

For days, my mind had been on the free pie offered to PCT hikers at Mom’s, one of nearly half a dozen boutique pie shops in this town of maybe a thousand residents. As I cashed in on a warm slice of apple crumb pie, I was also surprised by a scoop of ice cream and a glass of lemonade, also free, just because I’m crazy enough to hike from Mexico to Canada! I was not surprised, however, to find nearly every hiker in town, sitting on the sidewalk in front of the store, enjoying pie and collecting sideways glances from the well-dressed and fresh-smelling tourists roaming the street. Julian is definitely a tourist destination. Breweries and boutiques (and pie shops) line the historic Main Street, with bikers and families and seemingly half the population of Southern California jammed onto the sidewalks. I spent the next few hours collecting (and grossly overpaying) for a decent resupply for the 99 mile journey to Idyllwild and, after returning to the campground for the night (just down the road from Scissors Crossing) had the privilege to enjoy a warm shower and laundry. It’s incredible what impact cleanliness can have on morale. I felt like a new man. I smelled like one too.

The wind howled across the valley floor as I slept that night. The next day would be a new chapter, the second chapter, of my journey north. The journey to Idyllwild would soon begin. This coming leg of the journey will take me over some of the highest peaks in Southern California through the San Jacinto range. First, I just had to learn how to sleep through this wind. Easier said than done.