It’s been brought to my attention that I often refer to “we” as I describe my adventures on the trail. Yes, I set out to hike the trail on my own, but I never had any intention of hiking alone. The trail is a social place, and it’s often the friends made along the way that make the experience of a thru hike what it is. Because of that, I think it’s appropriate to share a little bit about the crew that I’ve been hiking with. I’ve hiked with dozens of people up to this point, some of them still on the trail and others not, but there has been a solid group of four of us that has developed over the last few hundred miles.
Jackpot was the first person that I met, on the bus ride from San Diego to Campo. We call him Jackpot because he tends to lose things, nice things, and we can only assume that whoever comes into possession of these things feels like they’ve hit the jackpot. He’s a recent college grad from Georgia who decided to come out here and hike the PCT before life got too busy. We both started alone together and hike at about the same pace, so we’ve been hiking together more or less since day one. Anchorman showed up within the first week on the trail. He started the same day as Jackpot and I, just later that evening. He’s originally from Southern Alabama, but went to college in New York City and has worked in Seattle for the last couple years. Most people think his trail name came from the Ron Burgundy films, but it actually stemmed from his consistent propensity to update us on current events around the world (whether we care or not) whenever he gets cell service. The last member of our crew is Sausage. The youngest and most inexperienced hiker among the four of us, Sausage is a third-year mechanical engineering student at Cal Poly and had been on exactly one backpacking trip before starting the PCT. His trail name originated from his tendency to pack out large quantities of pre-cooked sausage links from every resupply. Even though he basically started the hike with zero experience, he has quickly developed a knack for the hiker-trash way of life.
As the four of us (along with several others) headed out of Agua Dulce, we passed, first down through the center of town, and then up and over the ridge, back into the rolling hills of the desert. Agua Dulce is a small town, tiny by most standards, but it still felt slightly busy and congested. We’re used to being on the trail, used to crossing a road every few days. We’re not used to walking down the shoulder of the road as car after car races by. Our sense and perception of speed has changed. Riding in a car now seems unnaturally fast, dangerously fast, like we’re flying. To our current senses, nothing should move that fast. I’d much rather plod along at a mere three miles per hour than race down a highway at seventy-five. Road crossings are deceivingly tricky. After being in the wilderness for so long, the ability to judge speed and coordinate timing for crossing a busy highway is surprisingly difficult, dangerously difficult. It’s better to just wait until nothing at all is coming. I’ve stepped out in front of traffic several times now. I knew they were there; I just grossly misjudged their speed. Thankfully, the residents of most towns along the trail are familiar with hikers and give us a wide berth at crossings. Agua Dulce was no different, but it still wreaked havoc on our nerves. Thankfully, we were back on the trail in a few short miles.
The trail continued to climb, up and around the ridgeline as it crested above the last signs of civilization. The wind blew fiercely, but there were occasional trees to provide some sense of shelter. As the trail finally began to descend once again, I came to a spring and found some of the others. We were only a couple miles from camp, but I immediately spotted the holdup. The spring, even this early in the season, was barely dripping out a liter every five or ten minutes. Consider a dozen or so hikers in a couple hours’ time, and you can imagine the result, but I still needed water, so I waited. After finally collecting enough for the night, we pushed on to camp, a small, poison ivy choked patch of dirt, just across a small, paved road. We found a well-stocked water cache nearby, but none of us needed any water. For the rest of the night, I listened to the rustlings and nocturnal activities of an unidentified creature or creatures in the bush near the head of my tent. I was glad that whatever it was never decided to attempt to gain entry.
Some days pass quicker than others, and the next day seemed to drag on forever. Climbing the hill up away from the road, the desert shrubs were just tall enough so that you couldn’t see much of anything. The trail, however, was clear and well maintained which made for easy progress, just not quick. As the trail wound its way through the valleys and ridges and washes and hollers of the desert, I began to notice the full spectrum of spring colors laid out before me. Small, springtime flowers bloomed in delicate shades of blue, yellow, and red. I can’t imagine that such colors would survive long in such a harsh desert environment, but at least for today they appeared perfectly vibrant and healthy. The rest of the desert shrubs were green from the nourishing waters of spring. Shades of green more plentiful than I have ever seen distinguished themselves sharply from the reds and browns of the desert floor. It’s unlikely to rain much more before fall, but I was witnessing the peak of springtime prosperity before the harshness of summer sets in. Even the creatures of the desert were attempting to take full advantage of the season. At one point, I came across a green snake spread across the trail, maybe three feet long. Prodding him with my trekking pole, he didn’t move. I threw a small rock and struck him in the side of the head, still nothing. For me, stepping over a live snake isn’t an option, and he didn’t look like he was particularly motivated to go anywhere anytime soon, so not knowing what else to do, I got underneath him with the tip of one of my trekking poles and flung him off the hillside, down into the valley below. I’m sure he didn’t appreciate the gesture, but he should have moved when he had the chance.
Further down the trail, I reached a memorial bench (a common sight along the trail) and a sign for the Leona Divide 50-mile ultramarathon. It included a list of each year’s winner, and I enjoyed seeing several names that I recognized – people I’ve never met, but heavy-hitters in the ultrarunning community. The two names that stood out the most were Karl Meltzer and Scott Jurek. Karl has won more hundred-mile races than anyone else, including the No Business 100 in Tennessee. Scott is one of the most accomplished ultrarunners across a wide range of times and distances, and has held records ranging from the US 24-hour record to the Appalachian Trail fastest known time. Upon closer examination of the finishing times carved into the wooden sign, I discovered that Scott’s time for 50 miles of rugged trail is roughly equal to my best time for 50 kilometers on a flat road course. Talk about humbling. Taking advantage of the extra motivation that learning about the race had given me, I made good time down the hill to another road crossing and the Green Valley Fire Station. There I found a picnic pavilion with shade and picnic tables. A water spigot was nearby. Naturally, there were no less than a dozen hikers huddled in the shade, and I made sure to take full advantage of the shade, chair, and water. It was difficult, but we finally motivated ourselves to push a few more miles, up and over a substantial ridge, to camp.
Unlike last night, this campsite had room for enough tents to house a small army. The wind was howling, though, so we pitched our tents close together behind the few bushes that acted as semi-effective wind-blocks. Throughout the night, it felt like I was being sand blasted. Sand makes for a nice surface to lay on, but when the wind blows, it comes straight through the mesh and into my tent. By early morning, however, I was ready to get moving anyway. We were camped near yet another small, paved road, and just down the road a couple miles was The Rock Inn, a famous breakfast spot along the trail. Better yet, we had to walk down the road anyway because across the road was the beginning of the Lake Fire closure, still closed from last year. Instead of 25 miles of winding trail, we would walk just over fifteen miles of blazing pavement before we met back up with the path. By the time The Rock Inn was opening for the morning, there was already over a dozen hikers waiting outside. Upon entering, we learned that the name is appropriate. From the outside, it looks like an old stone tavern, and from the inside, the bare-stone walls and wooden ceiling complete the look. Even better, the food was incredible.
Leaving breakfast, we began our long, hot journey down the road. There was a small shoulder, but luckily the road wasn’t too busy. As we walked, we witnessed first-hand the devastation of the Lake Fire. Every property had been burned to the ground. Burned out pickup trucks and horse trailers littered what must have once been an active agricultural area. The foundations of homes were all that remained, along with maybe a small pile of metal from the household appliances that didn’t burn or melt. A few homeowners had returned with RVs to try to get their life back on track, but most of the area was eerily quiet. Eventually passing out of the burn zone, things got slightly more interesting. I passed an ostrich farm (there were about half a dozen ostriches watching intently as I passed by) and a film ranch, essentially a zoo for animals that are used in movies and shows – like where the lions were kept in Acton. As I walked, I realized that I hadn’t carried enough water from the restaurant. Becoming incredibly thirsty, I stopped at the front gate of a well-to-do house and searched for a water spigot. I found one behind a well-irrigated bush but turned the knob and nothing came out. Oh well. Most of the properties along the road were fortified with barbed wire, no trespassing signs and security cameras, so I felt that it was wise to keep walking.
Luckily there was a water cache where the road met the trail. I enjoyed a lengthy break in the shade, away from the hot pavement, and then kept pushing. Hikertown was only about six miles away and I was determined to make it there. My pack on the other hand, was determined to kill me. It had gotten to the point of hurting every day, but those six miles up and over the ridge and down to Hikertown were some of the most brutal miles that I had walked so far. My shoulders were throbbing. As I walked, I tried every adjustment that I could think of, and nothing seemed to help. To make matters worse, I now had cell service and could see that my new pack wouldn’t arrive in Hikertown in time for me to pick it up today or tomorrow. I would ultimately have to get a ride back from Tehachapi to pick it up in a few days. A few more days, that’s all that I had to tolerate my old pack. I honestly wasn’t sure if I could do it. Finally, I stumbled into Hikertown, setup camp, and tried to sleep.
Hikertown, like so many other places along the trail, is a strange place. There are multiple theories floating around about the origin of the property. Some people say it was an old film set of some kind, or at least a storage property for pieces of a film set. Others claim to know as fact that the original owner was a high-ranking Disney executive who apparently needed an additional outlet for creativity. Some people even claim that it was, at some point in the distant past, a poorly executed and unfinished attempt at a small-scale theme park. Whatever it’s original purpose, however, it has become known as one of the most recognizable stops along the entire PCT.
From the busy highway 138 crossing, you initially see a small building or hut with the name of the place, Hikertown USA, painted in patriotic colors. An American Flag blows proudly nearby. Entering the gate, there is a faded sign with a few ground-rules and very few instructions. Basically, if you want to sleep in one of the many shacks, you find the clipboard, write your name next to the one you want, and make the suggested donation. Camping is free. That’s it. That’s all they tell you. No one seems to know who lives in the house, who runs the place, or who’s in charge, so the several dozen hikers that are there on any given evening just make themselves at home. There’s a single shade tree with some chairs under it, a sink and a few five-gallon buckets for laundry, there’s an outdoor shower that sometimes has hot water, and there’s a bathroom. One bathroom. For the whole establishment. And (naturally) it’s disgusting. Each of the shacks is designed as a specific type of building. There’s the Bank, complete with an old ATM outside and some rifle props hanging on the wall inside (I guess for security?). There’s the City Hall, complete with a front porch and an old couch. Other buildings include Mining Supplies, the Hotel and many others, all painted in bright colors (to identify the nature of the building) with a bed inside for weary hikers and complete with props according to the type of establishment. Old furniture litters the property. Back behind the house, there is a collection of old cars and trucks, eighteen wheelers, and random pieces of mechanical equipment.
Throughout the night (as I was attempting to sleep) alcohol flowed freely and the stench of weed hung thick over the lively band of hikers that had congregated under the tree up by the house. Other more illicit substances were distributed and utilized in a slightly more concealed but still shockingly open manner. The four of us, along with several others, had decided to camp at the far end of the property, far away from the action. Because of that, we had the party on one side of us and were also directly beside the highway on the other side, with trucks speeding by all night. None of us got much sleep.
By the time the sun rose, it was already blazing hot. Hikertown is, after all, on the floor of the Mojave Desert. Our plan for the day was simple: rest up and try to develop a plan to cover the next 49 miles of trail through the Mojave. The first 16 miles or so are the most brutal, as the trail follows the LA aqueduct across the bottom of the desert basin. After that, it’s just brutal exposure and desert ridges. On a low-snow year, this is probably the most dangerous stretch of the entire trail, as the daytime heat can become deadly. We ultimately decided to complete the 49 miles in two night-hikes of decreasing length and then a short day-hike on the third day. Eventually finding shade on the front porch of the City Hall, we tried to motivate ourselves for the night ahead. There are certain times where you just have to put your head down and gut it out, and we knew that the next three days were going to be one of those times.
As the afternoon passed, we began to get nervous. This section of trail would be a challenge. A couple hours before sunset, small bands of hikers started making their way out. I’m not entirely sure why, but this section of trail is a popular place for hikers to utilize and apparently enjoy various varieties of mind-bending substances. They claim it makes the monotony of the desert more palatable, but to me it seems dangerous to hike out here under the influence of anything, especially some of the things that many of them were under the influence of. The trail is a challenge, I want to have possession of my full cognitive abilities while I’m out here. As the last few hours of daylight passed, more and more groups of hikers headed out, many dancing and laughing so hard they could barely figure out which direction to walk. Finally, about an hour before sunset, our crew decided it was time. With hardened, determined gazes, we nodded at one another and headed out the gate. We soon found ourselves walking parallel to a broad, open-topped section of the aqueduct. It felt strange to be walking alongside a large body of water in the middle of the harshest desert in North America. Eventually, the trail turned, crossed a bridge over the water, and began following along the top of the longest, straightest pipeline that I have ever seen. Below my feet, thousands of gallons of water were flowing downhill, toward the city of Los Angeles. I was walking on water… across the Mojave Desert.
Walking along the massive pipe, I passed through various desert communities. Dogs barked, kids played. I guess that late evening is the only time that the temperature is tolerable enough to be outside. As the sun disappeared and the light faded, I reached another turn. I had followed the straight pipeline for several miles directly north, toward the hills, but now the steel pipe ended, and I turned toward the northeast, following along the top of the even larger concrete pipe. From the surface, this section of the aqueduct looked less like a pipe and more like a road. It’s basically just a flat slab of concrete that winds through the desert, with the occasional valve housing. And, as we quickly learned, locals do in fact use it as a road. It was now fully dark, and I was walking without my headlamp. Every so often, I would pass a group of hikers, typically sitting or laying on one of the valve housings, staring blankly up into the sky. Other groups would be walking, slowly, stumbling through the darkness while waving a myriad of multi-colored light-sticks and laughing along to some obscure music blaring from someone’s pack. Sometimes they would notice me passing by, but other times I could pass by in the shadows, unseen. That’s why I prefer to be in my right mind – being that out of it just doesn’t appeal to me.
The walking surface was flat, and with the smooth, concrete path, the miles came easy. Passing by many unknown structures, I tried to determine their purpose. Some seemed like industrial warehouses of some kind, glowing in the night with equipment roaring inside. Others seemed more like agricultural facilities, still lit up and windows glowing, but quieter. Others were clearly residential houses, but eerily, I noticed that no one seemed to be around at any of these places. Where was everybody? Walking through the darkness, my mind began to play tricks on me. Some structures began to look like the surface ports of some kind of subterranean government research facility. I’m not sure how my mind reached that conclusion, but I knew that the lights further toward the eastern horizon were from the Mojave Air and Space Port. No telling what kind of secret facilities the government has hidden out here in the desert. I kept walking and tried to return my mind to sound logic.
Suddenly, I looked up toward the sky and did a double-take. Almost directly above me was a well-defined line of no less than twenty lights, moving steadily and silently across the sky. As I watched, they continued along their path toward the horizon. Finding that I had cell service, I snapped a picture and sent it to my college roommate. He immediately responded that it was clearly a squad of Starlink satellites – Elon Musk’s plan for SpaceX to provide internet to the world from a continuous web of coordinated satellites. By that time, I was passing yet another group of obviously hallucinogenic hikers, so I decided to have a little fun. By the time I pushed ahead, they were convinced that the satellites were alien vessels, preparing the way for the mothership to invade. As I headed further up the trail, the string of satellites disappeared past the horizon, and I made my way further toward the hills and the flashing lights of a windfarm.
I was fully aware of what I was looking at, but the windfarm was still slightly eerie in the dead of night. The massive blades swooshed loudly but unseen in the darkness overhead, while the red lights at the top blinked in slightly broken synchronicity. As I walked, the trail suddenly left the aqueduct and headed up, into the hills. Climbing along dirt access roads, I could see that the turbines stretched out for miles. For the first time, I turned my headlight on and left it on. It would have been easy to take a wrong turn down any of the weaving dirt roads. By around two in the morning, I reached “the bridge,” a large water cache and common stopping point for the first stretch of night hiking. I stopped briefly but decided to keep pushing. If I could make it to the creek (easily identifiable because it’s the only creek on this section of trail), then I would be in a better position to rest for most of the day tomorrow. Continuing on past the shadow of Joshua Trees, I began to enter back into wilderness. There were still turbines, but I was back on an actual trail. Kangaroo mice darted to and from their burrows, dragging their long tails behind them. Coyotes yipped in the distance. Frogs and Lizards froze in the beam of my light. On the next ridge over, I could see several sets of glowing eyes, but have no idea what they belonged to. I finally reached the creek in the early morning hours, and quickly pitched my tent and tried to get a few hours of sleep before it was too hot again.
I awoke in an oven. My tent was in full sunlight and the temperature inside was quickly rising. Dragging myself outside, it wasn’t much better. It was still morning, relatively early, but the sun was already unbearably brutal. Scrambling down to the creek I found a small trickle and collected as much as I could. Looking around, I spotted a single, large tree down below the trail and knew that would be the place to be. There I found the crew: no less than two dozen hikers were huddled in the large patch of shade, trying to escape the heat. Some slept, others talked quietly, everyone was just trying to escape the sun for the day. A few hikers were still trickling in, especially the ones who had decided to stop at the bridge, but by midday it became clear that no one was still out hiking in the heat.
Suddenly, as I was drifting in and out of sleep, Anchorman nearly jumped out of his skin. A rattlesnake had emerged from the bush a mere foot from his head. It wasn’t rattling and didn’t seem threatened by us at all, but instead seemed curious. Within seconds, everyone was awake and scrambling to get away. Blue, an older man that we had been hiking near for several weeks, sprung into action. Shoeless and shirtless, he grabbed a trekking pole and began to prod the snake back toward the bush, but it wasn’t deterred and continued toward a cluster of now-vacant sleeping bags a few feet away. I suddenly imagined the task of evacuating a rattlesnake from a sleeping bag and decided that wasn’t something I was interested in. Grabbing my trekking poles, I jumped in front of the snake – stupid, I know. I had my shirt, but like Blue, I was shoeless. I began pushing it away from the sleeping bags, but the snake would simply weave around my trekking poles and continued on its way. It was now less than two feet away from the nearest bag and I no longer saw any choice. I raked my trekking pole under the midsection of the large reptile and flung it, overhanded, as hard as I could. For several short seconds and about thirty yards, the snake went airborne, end over end, and landed with a thud in a bush. Several of us scrambled down the canyon to make sure the creature wasn’t trying to return, but we were unable to locate him. He had apparently gotten the message and headed out. Returning to the tree, everyone was up. We all agreed that what Blue and I had done was particularly stupid, but at least the snake was gone. I don’t think anyone went to sleep for the rest of the day.
As evening set in, groups began heading back out. Our plan was to get a slightly earlier start, reach camp by around midnight, get a little sleep, and then wake up early to push the last few miles into Tehachapi tomorrow morning. Even with the sun low in the sky, the heat was still brutal. The trail followed the winding ridges in and out of shade. Everyone was moving slower than the day before – in addition to general exhaustion, the trail was now sand, lose sand. There aren’t many trail surfaces more annoying than lose sand. It seemed like every step was a battle for traction. A little past dark, I reached the “Bar and Grill,” a famous water cache with patio furniture and an umbrella for shade. The umbrella was no use now that the sun was down, but we knew this would be our only water source between the creek and town, so we filled up. I pushed ahead quickly, however, wanting to reach camp as soon as possible. As the trail meandered from ridge to ridge, I became aware of the fact that there were now more bushes and shrubs again. We had crossed the most barren stretch of the Mojave, and now were winding our way through the high desert. Throughout the night, the wind picked up to a howl and I entered back into the windfarms. These turbines were even larger than before, towering overhead. I could see their massive, white towers and flashing red lights, but the blades were invisible in the darkness. The deafening whoosh, however, reassured me that they were there. Finally descending out of the wind, I reached the campsite in a sheltered grove of trees. I was exhausted.
I awoke the next morning to Jackpot calling my name as he headed out of camp. I had slept later than I meant to. The sun was already high in the sky, and I still had nearly ten miles to the highway. Luckily, it wasn’t quite as hot as it had been, and I made good time as I hiked through hills covered in hundreds of wind turbines. In every direction, as far as eye could see, there were turbines. I was now walking on high, exposed hillsides and had a good perspective of where I had been and where I was going. To the south was the eastern edge of the Tehachapi Mountains that I had just crossed, the creek was on the other side and the Bar and Grill was somewhere near the top. To the east and southeast, I could see down into the Mojave Desert Basin. We had crossed it a little further south, just out of sight, around the corner of the mountains. To my west was a line of higher ridges, the central Tehachapi Mountains, all lined with turbines. Looking north, I could see the land dip down toward Tehachapi Pass and then rise up again toward the northern extent of the Tehachapi range that stretches up toward the southern Sierra Nevada. Finally descending, I caught up with Jackpot at highway 58, and we secured a ride with a trail angel into town.
Naturally, our first stop was food, so we found ourselves pulling our chairs up at Kelcy’s Restaurant. Soon after I had ordered both the juevos rancheros and the pancake special, several other hikers stopped by to join us, and before long we had filled a table for ten. After lunch, we made our way to our respective hotels before venturing back out for dinner at Thai-Hachapi, a cleverly named and particularly tasty Thai restaurant in the middle of town. Locals either love hikers or hate them. On one hand, there were no less than twenty hikers at the restaurant when we arrived, pumping money into the local economy like their lives depended on it. On the other hand, we invade typically calm establishments such as this in large, boisterous groups, and a cloud of dirt, dust and reek follows us wherever we go. We try to at least give a pretty generous tip to hopefully compensate for any inconvenience that our loud, disgusting presence may cause. After dinner, we journeyed down to the Fairfield Inn to hang out at the hot tub for a while. Just picture sixteen filthy hikers crammed into one small hot tub and you get the idea.
We had decided several weeks before to take a zero day in Tehachapi, as it would be our last large town before we entered the Sierras. The next day was laundry and resupply day, which, in a town this large involves quite a bit of walking. By evening, I was done with most of my “town chores,” and the only thing left to do was ride back down to Hikertown to pick up my new backpack. Sausage had gone home for the weekend (He’s from the LA area), so he kindly volunteered to drive me a couple hours round-trip back down into the Mojave. Upon arriving back at that strange establishment, I was giddy with excitement. I had suffered for several hundred miles under the painful shoulder straps of my old ultralight pack and was full of anticipation for the relief that this new pack would bring. As I unboxed it, I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. If you had told me before this hike that I would ever be this excited about getting an external frame pack, I would have thought you were lying. It’s big, it’s heavy, but it’s also durable and hopefully more comfortable. After driving back to the trail and swapping my gear out of my old pack and into my new one, I felt invincible. Yes it was top-heavy, yes other hikers who didn’t know the backstory shot questionable looks in my direction whenever they saw it, but at least I was going to be comfortable. You’d be hard-pressed to find a piece of backpacking gear that has equivalent and simultaneous “cool” and “not cool” factors as a good-ole-fashion external frame Kelty pack. With one exception, this was the only external frame pack that I had seen on the trail, but I hauled it up the mountain with pride, my old pack strapped on the back like a fallen comrade.
As we climbed back up into the mountains from Tehachapi Pass, the wind began to blow. We were out of the windfarms, entering back into the wilderness, but we could still see far out over the Mojave below and back toward the windfarm through which we had hiked two days ago. The higher we climbed, the windier it got. We had hiked through wind before, but this was stiffer and stronger than anything else that we had experienced. Once we crested the ridge, our best estimate was that the wind was gusting to sixty or seventy miles per hour. My new pack acted like a sail attached to my back, pushing me around as I made my way up the trail. It didn’t bother me though. This was nothing. We had conquered the Mojave. We had successfully crossed the most barren area of land in North America. And we had done most of it while walking on top of one of the most essential waterways in the world.
