After a nearo out of Wrightwood, I was ready for the climb up Mount Baden Powell. The mountain is named after the founder of scouting. It was one of the first PCT mountains with a steepness that rivaled the Appalachian Trail. Falling back into my old stride, I rather enjoyed the physical effort. My hair was plastered to my forehead with sweat as I pushed up the mountain, glancing up every now and again to see how far I had to go yet. "We have to be close, right?" I asked a dude, as he step aside to let me pass. "To Canada? Oh you got a ways yet," He joked. I chuckled.
After the obligatory summit photos, I lingered at the top until the rest of the group arrived. We took a healthy break, snacking and petting a husky out for a day hike. With a ways to go yet, I shoved one more cracker into my mouth and hoisted my pack. The rest of the day was beautiful but uneventful.
Then came the road walk. We were being rerouted for the endangered Mountain Yellow Frog. The original PCT passed through its habitat, and the Forest Service didn't want to risk having its home destroyed, so we had to road walk. I rather enjoyed it; it was harder on the feet, but the road was wide and cool and easy walking. As there were few cars and no one was around, I blasted my music and sang as I glided downhill in the cool breeze. It grew late, and I was thankful to finally follow the road to an awesome campground where a group of thruhikers had gathered to spend the night.
The morning hike was beautiful and easy; I followed a trail along a creek back to the PCT. After a while, the trail met a dirt road. With little thought, I headed up the road, following the footprints. You can often tell you are on the right track because of all the footprints. Is this right? The thought crossed my mind. It seemed like an awfully wrong long road walk, but there were so many footprints. So I kept going. Twenty minutes later I came to a crossroad. The trail ran to my right and to my left. Dismayed, I checked my phone. According to my guide, I had skipped 1.7 mi of trail. Instead, it looked like I had done almost a mile of road walk-- a shortcut. Should I go back and do the PCT? It would add 3 miles to my day if I did. As I stood there debating, TC wandered down the trail, bewildered as to how I had passed him. He snickered as I explained my predicament, and suggested I could drop my pack and run it. I strongly considered that for a moment, but then I pictured myself tripping and falling and rolling down the hill, breaking my arms and legs as I gathered momentum, only to be stopped dead by a huge prickly cactus. I would have to crawl for help, broken and bleeding, hungry and dehydrated under the relentless sun. I decided to skip it.
The rest of the day was long and hot. I had a blister forming on my heel under a thick layer of skin. I managed to convince the others to call it an early day and stay at an awesome campsite. We all turned in early before the sun went down.
Surgery on my blister provided little relief, but I managed to push hard all morning. After a quick lunch, I was back on my feet. I was trying to make it 24 miles to the ice cream. Six miles to go, I allowed myself a quick break. I lay sprawled out on a big tree stump, watching the clouds disappear overhead before I closed my eyes to nap. With renewed energy I covered the remaining ground in less than two hours. It was cold and windy at the ranger station, but I set up my tent and graciously accepted two Klondike bars. With frozen fingers I peeled back the wrapper and scarfed down the delicious treat.
I saw Coppertone the trail angel again in the parking lot (the trail angel that serves root beer floats). I paused a moment for cookies and fruit before heading to the KOA Campground where I inhaled some donuts and pizza. As I headed out, I was stopped by a few people. They asked what I was doing. I told them. "Oh, I've only seen that in the movies, never in real life," one woman said.
Toward the end of the day, I caught up with Steak and Stretch as we entered Vasquez Rocks. It was a beautiful place. Mounds of rock had pushed their way out of the ground and lay heaped on top of each other. "Do you want to play on the rocks?" Stretch asked. "Yes!" Rock scrambling is my favorite. We dropped our packs and scrambled up a steep rock formation. I sat and marveled at the landscape; the highway cutting through the cliff at a distance, the tourists clambering around below.
Rock scrambling
The call of town pulled us from the rocks and we made our way to the road. The PCT runs right through Agua Dulce, a tiny trail town. After a few miles of road walk, we stopped at a grocery store to get food for dinner. Then the shuttle came to take us to heaven.
I climbed out of the truck bed and entered the pearly gates of hiker heaven. I could barely pay attention to the tour as I gazed around at everything offered: camping, laundry, charging stations, computers, sewing machines, a kitchen space, Wi-Fi, foot soaks, tents, a mini post office, and a clean relaxing atmosphere. It was everything one could want. I joined the zoo of hikers, chickens, dogs, and horses.
After a indulging in the luxury of hiker heaven for a day, we made our way back to the trail. Twenty four miles later, we found ourselves at another awesome place: Casa de Luna. I enjoyed chocolate chip ice cream, hammocking, eating taco salad, painting rocks, and camping amongst beautiful manzanita trees.
Because of these lovely places, we had taken two nearos in the past week. While I enjoyed it, part of me was itching to get back to the trail and crush some miles. However, the breaks were necessary; the Sierras were drawing ever nearer, and we had to be careful not to enter them too early. Climbing into those mountains before the snowmelt could have serious consequences.
But 200 miles of desert still lay before me, and after recharging, we headed back out into the dry heat.
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