Cold.
Brutal Cold.
Bone-chilling cold.
The type of cold that you just can’t keep out, no matter how many layers you put on.
All we could think about as we headed back towards the trail was why we were voluntarily leaving the comforts of town on such a day as this. Surely it would be easier to wait for a warmer day (the forecast predicted temperatures to rise steadily over the next several days), but Canada wasn’t going to come to us. I’ve heard that fall snowstorms up in Washington are no joke. To beat the weather, we needed to keep moving, slowly, steadily, along that long, winding path north.
So, up into the mountains we climbed. The temperature continued to plummet. After climbing for several miles, we began to enter into the clouds. The trees at this elevation were coated with ice. It wasn’t snowing or icing at the moment, but it felt like it could at any time. We kept climbing. I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t that bad. At least it wasn’t a thousand degrees with the sun beating down. As we walked, the distance between the three of us grew. At times, I could barely see the person in front of me, and he was only about a hundred yards ahead. The clouds poured over the ridge in giant, frozen, biting blankets of freezing mist. The trail followed the ridge, blasting us with the full brunt of the vicious wind, until we finally dropped down into a shallow, tree-sheltered valley – our camp for the night. Upon arrival, we found several others already in their tents. We were camping at a closed forest service campground, with picnic tables, a water spigot (that somehow wasn’t frozen yet) and pit toilets. I felt bad not taking advantage of the tables, but it was too cold and windy, so I found myself eating dinner in the relative comfort of my sleeping bag.
And then it started to snow.
This was no light, fluffy snow. This was a heavy, damp, slushy snow that began accumulating at an alarming rate. My tent sagged under the weight. It was falling so hard, that it was almost noisy as the massive flakes pelted the ground. The wind was still blowing, but it didn’t help clear off my tent. I still had to beat the walls from the inside every few minutes to keep too much snow from accumulating. Eventually, the mesh vents around the base of my tent were completely blocked with mounds of snow. Needless to say, sleep came scarce that night. By morning, there were several inches of dampness all around. The mounds around my tent completely filled the gap between the bottom of my rainfly and the ground. There was a stillness in the air. I took that to mean that the bad weather was likely moving out. That was good. Today was summit day for Mt. Baden Powell, the largest mountain since Mt. San Jacinto (which we didn’t summit due to deep snow). As I headed out of camp, the sky began to clear. Perfect.
Surprisingly, the snow completely disappeared as the trail dropped several hundred feet. We must have been right at the base of the snow zone. By the time I crossed the Angeles Crest Highway and began the 3000 foot climb up the mountain, there was no snow in sight, and I was stripping off my jackets. The climb up Baden Powell is long, but gradual. Long, sweeping switchbacks cross the face of the mountain no less than a dozen times. Many people hate switchbacks, but I tend to enjoy them. My experiences of hiking in the Appalachians have given me a great appreciation for any route that doesn’t take you straight up and then straight back down the face of any mountain, ridgeline, or hill. I’ve never understood the eastern trail-builder’s aversion to the switchback, but they are few and far between. Out here, however, you can cover many miles as you weave back and forth up a mountain, maybe only covering a mile or less of distance as the crow flies. Plus, as an added bonus, you aren’t quite as exhausted when you reach the top because the climb has been more of a sloped walk and less of a mountain scramble. The last few switchbacks were covered in snow, but I was still able to follow the path of footprints and generally follow the trail for the rest of the way to the summit.
Upon reaching the top, I had views of two very different areas. To the north, I could see many miles down into and across the Mojave Desert. Small patches of green could be seen, probably at seeps or springs, but the rest of the land was baren. Roads extended out past the horizon, straight as an arrow, with no reason to turn. From almost 10000 feet, the flatness and the broad expanse was almost dizzying. In about a week’s time, I would be walking across that broad expanse. To the east and west, however, the rugged, mountainous ridgelines of the San Gabriel Mountains disappeared into the distance. Some of the tree-covered slopes still had pockets of snow, but others were fully melted. I’ve heard that on a clear day you can see the LA skyline to the south, but it was still far from a clear day. High above the desert floor, I felt a sense of isolation, in a good way. I’d spent a lot of time in the desert already, it felt good to be up in the mountains, where the conditions are more unpredictable and the trail a little less stable. It was cold, but the sun was trying to beat through. I could now see that the clouds were indeed moving out. Better weather was coming, it would just take it a couple days to settle in.
Throughout the rest of the day, I decided to push mileage. The trail follows parallel to the Angeles Crest Highway through this stretch and crosses back and forth over it many times. Due to damage from a fire last year, the rest of the group that I had been hiking with decided to road-walk around the burn areas and had branched off at the road crossing before the climb up San Jacinto. The road was closed anyway due to a small rockslide, so traffic wasn’t an issue. I, on the other hand, had wanted to remain true to the trail. While the road is known for being one of the most scenic along the trail, I came out here to hike the trail, so I felt obligated to avoid the detour. The road-walk, however, was approximately ten miles shorter than the trail, so I wanted to push to catch up with the rest of the crew as quick as possible. Descending from the summit, I skirted around and climbed up and over ridges, winding my way through the highlands of the San Gabriel range. Ultimately, I kept pushing past sunset for a 23-mile day, my longest day yet, even with the major climb.
I awoke to wind and frigid temperatures, but the sky was clear. Today would be a nice day. I was sore after the long day yesterday, but nothing cures sore legs quite like another long day of hiking. Once again, I crisscrossed the highway many times before I realized that I was coming to an edge. Up ahead, I could see that the mountains abruptly ended, disappearing to the south and dropping back down into the lower hills of the desert. At this point, I’m accustomed to hiking in many different geographic areas, but I don’t have much experience crossing major geographic boundaries on foot. Throughout this hike, it has been interesting how abruptly the landscape can change. From mountains to rolling desert to green meadows, the transitions are always more sudden than I expect. Up, over the ridge I climbed, and then down, into the valley and back toward the desert I walked. I was anticipating another long day, as the rest of the crew was now an unknown distance ahead of me. I wanted to catch up with them today, but if not today, then definitely tomorrow.
Suddenly, I spotted smoke rising from a distant hillside.
Smoke is common on the trail. Smoke from campfires often fills the canyons in the evenings. Smoke rises from the backyards of homes down in the valley as they conduct controlled burns to keep flammable items away from their house and property. Smoke wafts skyward from certain hikers who choose to indulge in the semi-legality of inhaling the smoke of certain green plants for personal enjoyment. This smoke, though, was different. Ten miles away, maybe fifteen, massive billows of thick, gray smoke poured skyward from the hillside. It was as if the time elapsed from ignition to full-blown wildfire had been essentially zero. Within minutes, I could see fire trucks leaving the valley below and heading up the highway. A little while longer, and helicopters appeared in the distance. The fire seemed undeterred. By now, the smoke had risen far into the sky in a giant plume. I’m not incredibly familiar with the nature of wildfires, but I felt that even in a worst-case scenario, I would probably be safe in this area for a day or two. I would also have the option to high-tail it down to the road and the fire station itself if things got dicey overnight. Looking around, I found a nice site and decided to camp nearby.
Choosing a rocky outcropping overlooking the valley, I pitched my tent against the wind. Surely the rocks would give me some protection. The smoke was now obscured by a higher, nearby ridgeline, but I took comfort in knowing that the wind was blowing the fire away from me. Of course, that same wind was also trying to blow me and everything else off the cliff. I was able to cook dinner sheltered by a large boulder, but soon after retired to my tent, partially to keep from getting sand-blasted and partially to hopefully keep my tent from blowing off the mountain with everything in it. A fitful night of sleep followed, and I awoke in the morning with my tent in my face. Apparently, several stakes had pulled out, and I now wasn’t real sure how to untangle myself. After a brief struggle, I managed to free myself from my sleeping bag liner, my sleeping bag and my tent as everything flapped violently in the wind. The issue was that the wind had shifted overnight. I had originally been at least partially sheltered by the rocks, but now the wind was blowing directly from the direction of the fire, the same direction from which I had no protection from it. The good thing was that I no longer saw any smoke, even after circling back around the next ridge. I later learned that the fire had started on the LA County Sheriff’s Bomb Squad training grounds. It had apparently prompted a large aerial response that was able to quickly contain it and fully extinguish it overnight.
I also learned that the rest of the crew had camped in the backyard of the fire station that I had been able to see from my campsite. They had ordered pizza and everything – apparently when I’m not around it’s a regular party. I was glad to know that I had almost caught up. I kicked it into high gear and began ticking off the miles, expecting to see someone I knew in the distance around every turn. As I travelled further back into the desert, however, fast progress became more difficult. Besides the presence of switchbacks, the other easily identifiable difference between eastern trails and most western trails that I have been on, is that trails out west are typically in better condition. Now, whether this is due to less and slower-growing foliage, more durable ground surfaces, less erosion because of less precipitation, or simply just better upkeep, I don’t know, but as a general rule, trail maintenance (or lack thereof) isn’t really an issue out here. There’s just one issue with that statement: the trail on this particular day made everything that I just said a complete lie.
I don’t even think the term “bushwhacking” is appropriate for what this day entailed. I had no idea that desert plants could grow that dense. I eventually resorted to sticking my arms straight out in front of me as I walked and just closing my eyes, bulldozing my way though, painfully. I tried to use my trekking poles to push some of the foliage out of my path, but I was afraid that they would break. There’s nothing I love more than carrying a heavy pack, sweating my guts out, and having to fight my way through the bushes as I hike for miles at a time. You could make the argument that I was just getting the full, natural experience, but by the time I was five miles into the bushwhacking experience, scratched up and bloody, I was getting aggravated. Toward the end, just for good measure, there was a massive tangle of blowdowns to climb through – A sort of grand finale I guess. Then, the trail suddenly improved and I found myself walking a nice dirt path again. I guess the trail had just wanted to remind me that it was still the boss.
By mid-afternoon, I reached a ranger’s station and found the whole crew there. Picnic tables, a water tank, and shade were enough to make this a major gathering place on this section of trail. There were even snacks and cokes for a dollar. I had planned to push a little further, but my body had other ideas. I sat down at a picnic table, and after catching up with friends, I found that my legs and feet weren’t interested in carrying me any further down the trail tonight. I learned from others, that the next few days were supposed to be incredibly hot. I also learned that the KOA campground that we were headed toward possibly had a swimming pool. By the time the sun was setting, there were at least twenty tents spread out across the area. In regular thru-hiker fashion, however, most everyone was asleep by the time the sun was all the way down.
It gets hot in the desert. (who knew!?) I thought that we had hiked through heat before, but hiking down into Acton was a new type of heat. An “I can’t walk much further unless I find shade” kind of heat. By midmorning, it was nearly unbearable, but luckily I was within striking distance of the campground and just gutted it out. I arrived drenched in sweat, dehydrated, and slightly confused. Finding a chair in the shade, I hung around outside the office for several hours, just trying to cool off. I normally do pretty well in the heat, but on this particular day, I pushed a little too hard. It’s difficult to become comfortable with the heat when, just a few days ago, I was getting snowed on. After venturing inside to pay for my stay, I found my way to the PCT hiker area. The term that comes to mind is “tent city,” but even that doesn’t seem to do it justice. There were at least fifty tents, probably more, spread out over the area. Some people had just arrived, others looked like they had been there for several days. Laundry was spread out over the fence surrounding the pool (Unfortunately not opening until tomorrow). The bathhouse had a line out the door. Everyone was sitting or laying on picnic tables or on the ground, just trying to stay remotely comfortable in the shade. It was a calm atmosphere, and yet there was a lot going on.
We ultimately decided to order pizza and ended up ordering from the same restaurant that they had ordered from at the fire station two nights ago. As we were waiting, we saw the delivery guy make at least three trips before he brought ours, after which we stopped counting. I downed my 16” supreme, and, by sunset, everyone in my crew was retiring to their tents. Others, however, especially those who looked like they had been there for a while, just got louder. As darkness set in over the camp, the good times began to roll (at least for some), and it proved to be a night of little sleep, even for those who wanted to sleep. We had been conflicted on whether we should stay two night and resupply in Acton, but by the morning, we were ready to leave. Our new plan was to push on to Agua Dulce and go into Palmdale to resupply. This plan proved to have its own issues.
As I was making my way back to the trail, I began to hear the loud grunts of the lions next door. Yes, you read that right. Apparently, there is some type of private zoo for exotic animals and big cats on the property directly adjacent to the campground. There are trees and fences that make it impossible to see, but we had been warned by other hikers that the lions like to get noisy around sunrise. Sure enough, as I was hiking up the hill, I could hear the grunts evolve to full-on roars. Either it was feeding time or they’re just not fond of mornings. I honestly couldn’t tell whether they sounded happy or aggravated. Maybe they just don’t like having to live down here in the desert, I’d be roaring every morning too if I was caged up down here.
To beat the heat, I was on the trail by the time the sun was rising over the mountains. I felt bad that we were going to miss the opening of the pool that day, but soon my mind was set on breakfast. Cranking out the ten miles between the KOA and Agua Dulce, I found myself passing through Vasquez Rocks and entering Agua Dulce by midmorning. I’ve never watched Star Trek or anything else that I’m aware of that was filmed at Vasquez Rocks, but I can see why they are so frequently used in film. Their otherworldly formations and interesting coloring is one of the most unique areas on trail so far. Of course, being the famous, natural formations that they are, I found the main parking lot for the day-use area right in the middle of the largest formation. I guess they didn’t want people to have to walk, but it sort of ruined the area for me. Why wouldn’t I want to see a broad selection of industrialism’s greatest accomplishment parked in the middle of what would otherwise be a moderately impressive natural area?
As the trail enters the small town of Agua Dulce, it joins the sidewalk and continues to pass straight through the center of town. We decided to stop at one of the restaurants for breakfast, and after a tasty meal of pancakes, sausage and eggs, secured an Uber into Palmdale. As the Uber driver drove us toward the grocery store, he inquired where we were staying and told us to be careful. Apparently, the town has it’s nice areas and some not quite as nice areas. From what we could gather from him, our Motel 6 that we were headed to was in one of the latter. After resupplying, a kind lady with a pickup truck offered us a ride. We took her up on it and she drove us down the street to Chic-fil-A for lunch, and then returned an hour later to drive us to our hotel. As we approached our destination, she warned us to be careful. “There’s lots of bad stuff that happens over on this side of town.” We thanked her for the ride and the bag of cookies that she had baked for us, and checked into our room.
Our group of five had reserved two rooms. I stayed in one room with two others. Our room had been recently renovated, but the other was pretty dingy. The first thing that we noticed, however, was that our door looked like it had been kicked in recently. It no longer latched or locked, but could be secured (somewhat) with the slider chain. That meant that anyone could essentially open the door about two inches. Oh well. We told the third guy that he could sleep on the floor in front of it and holler at us if someone tried to come in overnight. He didn’t seem to mind.
As the evening passed, things began to get more eventful. One of the guys was offered cocaine by some man circling the parking lot in his car. Women came and went from various rooms. An interesting collection of folks just seemed to hang around the parking lot. There was a domestic disturbance in the office that the cops were called out for – They simply hauled all offending parties away. Later in the evening, one of the guys in our group got his expensive jacket stolen out of the washing machine in the laundry room. The security guard on duty was unwilling to look into it, and instead suggested that we return to our rooms for the night. I guess he had bigger issues to deal with. We eventually ordered food and proceeded to eat in the laundry room while our clothes finished drying. On our final trip back to the room, there was yet another fight in the office that resulted in the cops returning. After securing the door the best we could, we all tried our best to get some rest. Luckily, no one decided to break in.
The following morning, the same lady that had driven us around town the day before returned to take us back to the trail. As we talked, she didn’t seem at all surprised by the events of the night before. “I told you to be careful!” Along the way, I finally broke down and ordered a new pack. I just couldn’t take any more of the constant shoulder pain that my Z-Packs Arc-Blast was inflicting on me every day. My new pack would be a Kelty Trekker, one of the last old-fashioned external frame workhorses that are still in production. It weighed over three times what my current pack did, but at least it would carry the weight comfortably. That’s really all I’m looking for in a pack. Reaching Agua Dulce, we piled out of the truck and made our way down the sidewalk. The next couple miles of trail followed the shoulder of the road, probably the most civilization we had seen along the actual trail so far. As we hiked on, it occurred to me that our next stop was Tehachapi, then Lake Isabella and after that would be Kennedy Meadows – the beginning of the Sierra. Most of the time, it’s easier to just not look at how far we’ve gone, but it’s becoming more and more obvious that we’ve come a long way. We just have an even longer way to go.
