The Walk to Lake Morena

First body of water - Lake Morena!

I was on my way to Canada, happy and excited to be taking my first steps on the Pacific Crest Trail. The desert sun filled the dry air with light, blurring the beige and blues of sands and sky together with the white of clouds. Or maybe I was already dehydrated and seeing stars. I doubted it though, I hadn't even had my morning coffee yet. That was probably the real issue. Either way, I unclipped the blue water tube from my pack's shoulder-strap, leaned my neck to the side as if to cradle a nineties home-phone and guided the flexible tube-straw into my mouth. I bit down slightly on the soft plastic before pulling through water from one of the two-liter bags stuffed like pontoons in the bottom of my pack. I felt like a cross between a turtle and a camel with hidden water compartments inside my shell. All these augmentations seemed to be working and the water was still relatively cold, considering everything.

I watched my trusty boots navigate the sand and rock of the well-trodden trail, shadows of tall bushes providing the only passing shade from the sun's glare. There was nothing to expose the wonderful secret that this trail, beneath my feet and hidden in plain sight, spanned 2,650 miles from Mexico to Canada through the mountains of the American West. In person, the famous trail appeared so humble.

I still needed to find the road that accessed Campo, where I wanted to take a quick trip into town to send home the leather belt I liked and meant to leave in storage, as well as the half-pound PCT Southern California section guide brick and a few other items I similarly already regretted carrying. Besides the post office, I also wanted to visit a cafe or general store in town for some coffee to replace the cup I had to quickly dispose of earlier when it started leaking from the bottom. In what felt like no time at all I arrived at a small green mile-marker sign by the side of the trail--mile 1. I laughed, wondering how many of these nice reminders of the larger PCT community there would be. I took a picture with my cellphone before continuing on.

The trail opened up to an area of bare rock. I did not see the trail anymore. It was definitely behind me. Then my eyes settled on a well-positioned cairn that helped guide me back to see where the trail connected into the bushes about fifty yards ahead. I was reassured. I felt a trust building in the trail and its caretakers who left all these clues and easter-eggs that were already positively shaping my experience. If the whole trail was well marked like this, I'd be able to follow it, hopefully all the way to Canada.

I was already beginning to sweat. The trail re-entered the bushes and after a few ups and down and a corner or two I found a nice rock on the side in the shade to lean my bag against. I conceded to my fair-skinned mother's wisdom and decided to use sunscreen today after all. I dug through the upper hamburger part of my pack to find the collection of travel-sized toiletries I stashed there for easy access, all of them carefully sealed in one ziplock bag or another.

I heard footsteps. I definitely still had sunscreen on my face. He came around the corner before I could finish rubbing it in, wearing a blue hat and a matching, light blue collared short-sleeved hiking shirt. He seemed completely in his own world. Not surprising, I had just been completely in my own. "Good morning! Sun was already too much for me!" I greeted as I did my best to finish rubbing it in.

He looked up and acknowledged me but clearly wasn't interested in stopping. I didn't blame him. I was not even really sure why I was making this sort of small talk with a total stranger. He was the first person I saw on trail though, and I think a part of me was looking for a friend. Like him I think though, most of me wanted to be alone. He murmured something about the heat that I didn't catch, before he moved around the other side of the bend and quickly out of sight so that I was once again left completely alone in my shady spot.

That guy seemed normal enough: not some freak athlete or the lumbering Paul Bunyan-type I imagined might be disproportionately well-represented on a trek across the United States. I thought that if he could do this, maybe I could too. Another man showed up before I finished putting away the sunscreen. "Nice morning," he stated rather bluntly in what I think was a German accent.

I smiled back. "It is indeed."

He was in his early sixties maybe, exuding confidence with an enlightened twinkle in his eye to match. His pack was small and his shorts were short, in stark contrast to my pants and 75-liter pack. I was encouraged to see he also wore a sun hat like mine.  He left and I was alone again, standing at the bend in the trail. I waited another minute to give him time to get some space ahead of me and see if there was anyone else coming up right behind me. The old man was fast enough that I would have happily walked behind him, but I was mindful of how annoying I might sound with my trekking poles plunging like huge metal insect limbs into the sand, and even louder when I missed the sand and directly impacted the occasional rock.

Walking along the dirt road I drove in on, now I was 'the hiker by the road',  a welcome signal for any incoming hikers that the trail was close. This was where I saw my first PCT hiker today on the drive in. He looked like something out of a backpacking magazine--walking with a confident stride, trekking poles in hand with head held high, sporting cool sunglasses and hat, all his gear so well contained in his clean pack. He seemed like a model for outdoor adventure.

I heard the churning of rock and irregular clunking of vehicle suspensions coming up behind me on the dirt road. I didn't expect anyone to come from that direction. Did this road really go anywhere besides the southern terminus? The caravan slowed down as it approached me. Alone in the desert with my clean pack I was an easy target, a stranger in an unfamiliar place, modeled for adventure but perhaps not survival. My mind wandered to a frightening mashup of scenes from Breaking Bad and No Country for Old Men. The fear lasted only a moment, however, when the driver of the first white van leaned out the window and called out "Have a good hike!"

I stopped pretending to ignore the caravan and turned towards it. To my surprise, I saw Scout waving from the driver side window. He was driving home and beaming one of his friendly, knowing smiles towards me--'the hiker by the road.' I raised my arm to wave back and was immediately embarrassed as my trekking pole rose with it, still looped around my wrist. I waved anyways, taking care not to whack myself with the now dangling aluminum spear. I wondered how often this encounter, trekking pole and all, was part of Scout's morning routine during the hiking season--perhaps it was another one of his favorite scenes. No matter how far I or any other hikers made it, at one point we were all just another hiker by the road, not far from Mexico.

That was all Scout ever said to me, literally in passing. I could tell he enjoyed the gleeful absurdity  of calling the 2,650 mile PCT a hike, almost like an inside joke. But it made sense: "have a good trek" or "have a good thru-hike" would have sounded sillier and been less funny. I knew what he meant. His acknowledgment and well wishes were everything I needed to hear to feel as though I received his blessing of passage from the southern terminus. He was an encouraging reminder that I wasn't truly alone out here, that there was an entirely unavoidable community of people who chose to go out of their way to support other hikers. Scout was only one of them. Maybe I was one of them.

I came up to some railroad tracks. There was another green sign, this one more like a billboard indicating that Canada was now 2,647 miles ahead, and that I already walked three miles since the border. I stopped and looked around, down the empty tracks to where they curved away through the small trees and out of sight. It seemed a little early after the mile 1 sign to be making another joke about how hopelessly far this place was from Canada. I realized I already walked too far and I missed the turnoff for Campo and coffee.

I thought it over. I didn't really need to mail off the extra items, I could always do that at the next town. But I really wanted some coffee. I was an addict--how was I supposed to walk twenty-one miles without my fix? So, to my dismay, I turned around at mile three and started walking back towards town.

I did not make it far before the mental arithmetic started. If I was at mile three, that meant it would be a mile and a half to the road, another mile or so into town followed by the return trip--about four to five extra miles. If I walked at about three miles per hour, that meant my mistake would cost me about an hour and a half, and that the day would be a twenty-six mile day if I wanted to make it to Lake Morena. So much for my early start.

I thought about passing other hikers who were heading north. I stopped again. Fuck this. I turned around and started back towards Canada. For better or worse, again the fear of admitting I was already lost to all the rugged PCT-hikers that I imagined were coming up behind me got the better of me. I was ok with that outcome though, I really did not want to walk an extra five miles on my first day on trail. Even coffee was not worth it.

I caught up to a younger couple. They were both still wearing their puffy jackets. I wanted to pass them but they did not seem inclined to let me through. After a while walking a bit close, so that they knew I was there and might let me through, I gave up and let them get a little more space ahead of me. I'd pass them eventually. The trail meandered through the underbrush and along dry river beds. Another hiker caught up to us. He was maybe in his forties and was, like me, dressed in sun-avoidant style with pants, a sunhat and cool sunglasses. I was already picking up on the various hiker 'looks' and was pleasantly surprised that I seemed to fit in for the most part. I think he quickly sized up that we weren't going to get past the couple and introduced himself.

"Hey man. I'm Bradley, how you doing?" he asked with cool confidence.

"Morning. I'm Ben. Doing pretty well, I have to say!"

"Yeah, this is great, huh? Beautiful day."

"Hot, but yeah, I'm glad to be starting now instead of a month from now."

"Definitely. This heat's only gonna get worse."

"It could always be worse." I agreed.

We came to a bend in the trail on a bit of an incline. Everything was hot and dusty.

"Screw it, I'm just gonna do it here. Hey, it was nice to meet you but I'm gonna have to take this shit eventually and this spot will work."

I did not envy Bradley as he scrambled off trail around mile 4, kicking up clouds of dirt and dust as he tried unsuccessfully to avoid the many bushes in a spot that looked to me like an absolutely terrible place to take a wilderness poo: in the hot sun, surrounded by prickly branches on an incline below the trail, where presumably people could see him. He must have really had to go. Poor Bradley.

The couple was still just ahead of me. Before a modest climb, they finally stopped to take off their puffy jackets. By the time I closed the last bit of distance between us they were almost done putting them away.

"Good morning." I greeted them as warmly as I could. I really thought it was still a great morning even if there was no coffee in my future and instead that future would include carrying a few extra pounds for the next hundred miles or so.

"Hey."

"Hello."

They did not seem like they wanted conversation or happy at all to let me through. I'm pretty fast so I hoped I wouldn't slow them down, but they kept up fine on the short hill. And now they were the one's trailing me uncomfortably close. Except they did not seem at all concerned about allowing me my own space as I was when I was behind them. Once the hill topped out, the girl started talking about solar panels, clearly a reaction to those strapped on the outside of my pack. I love my gadgets and could not resist the idea of using the sun to charge my phone, especially in the wilderness.

"They just seem like a waste of weight to me." The girl remarked, "I have more charge than I've ever needed with just my Anker."

Her boyfriend agreed, "Yeah, I don't see the point. They barely work anyways."

They either wanted me to hear their condescending evaluation of my gear, or they were too clueless to realize how their condescension might be perceived negatively by someone walking directly in front of them. Either way, not good.

I picked up my pace to get away from them. Before the trail dipped down into a more heavily vegetated area I saw the older man again, cruising along in his short shorts. I followed at a safe distance through the tall grasses. I was content with having these hundred or so yards of trail to myself.

The older man stopped for a drink. I caught up to him. "Hello again!" I greeted enthusiastically. I think he reminded me of my grandfather. Before he passed away, he was a marathon runner, always wearing the same kind of lightweight short shorts on race day. He returned my greeting, again with a friendly smile and german accent.

Now I was trailing a taller girl moving fairly quickly with a pretty large green pack. She wore green reflective sunglasses to match with a visor that helped contain her long blonde hair. Her long legs and stride exuded strength and determination as she dug in to grind up the hill that I would face shortly after. On the other side of the switchback, she definitely saw me looking up at her.

She waited for me at the top of the hill and before the next one. "Good morning." I said like I had to everyone and on my way.

"Um, excuse me." She called out in a lovely, not quite British accent after I was only a few feet past her. I stopped and turned around, not really believing my luck that she actually wanted me to stop.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Sorry, but would you mind grabbing my headphones for me? They're in the top pocket of my pack and it's such a pain to take off."

I definitely believed that it was a pain, the thing looked big even on such a tall girl, "Yeah sure, no problem." I responded. She turned around and pointed over her shoulder to the top zipper on her pack. I reached in, quickly found her headphones and gave them to her.

"Thank you so much!" She really seemed incredibly appreciative. I was happy to help but recognized  headphones weren't exactly an invitation to hike with her.

"Go ahead, you're faster," she said, motioning to the trail ahead.

"Sure, thanks." I agreed. "See you around."

1. Will you grab my headphones? Niona
2. Solar Panel judgement
3. First awkward meeting with group of people
4. Bradley has to poop at mile 2
5. Mile 1 sign
6. Railroad tracks, 2647 miles to go...
7. Missing turnoff for Campo, not realizing until a mile and a half after
8. Not turning back, not yet. Needed to get to Lake Morena
9. "Nice pack!"
10. Older foreign guys with short shorts and kind smiles
11. Older man with HUGE pack moving slowly
12. HOT
13. Dog man, mile 3
1. rifle
2. barking
3. Huge grey dog blocking path
4. "Is he friendlY?"
5. Leaning over, grabs knife from pack
6. stuff strewn over trail
14. Older man, day pack and jeans - useful information but something off. "What ar eyou rplans for Idylwild?" 
15. We made pleasant small talk, but then I passed him. After he called out to me. We ended up walking together for a while.
16. He's hiked the last 8 years, never made it out of california
17. He asks me "Do you smoke weed?" - says 90% of people on trail smoke
18. He was an alcoholic and this was his therapy it sounded like
19. We ate lunch together. He claimed to be from lake morena. Told me I didn't need a few things (book...). His wife dropped him off. We've hiked 11 miles already
20. Burn area - illegals - "Put a bullet in their head"
21. -Story about beating a young woman climbing up Hauser Canyon because he knows how to pace himself
22. Warns me about "Chloroform" in Lake Morena - don't drink it - offers to have me over - distrust
1. It's actually "Coliform"...
23. First water from life straw
24. Hauser canyon, beat his record
25. ran into Ed (red in face) and Adrian during the climb
26. "We admire your vision"
27. Jumping into yosemite river back in the day
28. guessnig my name was Ben
29. Buying water at the store
30. Fixing my first blister
31. Making my first dinner
32. Seeing Ed again
33. Getting camping permits with Aaron and Niona.

Sketch. AT. skull and crossbones necklace. Beers, cigarettes. Six miles tomorrow ont he wya to Laguna. George from Seattle. Israeli couple. Adrian lent quarters for shower. Talk about solar panels with guy I knew I would never see again (and didn't). Family that took 3 days to get to Lake Morena. Should I leave and walk more today? Ed's dog-man story.

Pacific Crest Trail, Chapter 1 - The Mexican Border (writing sample)

The bus to Mexico dropped me off in San Diego at 4 am on Easter Sunday. I was lucky the driver remembered to wake me up, "Hey bud, you wanted to get out here, right? Next stop's in Mexico."

Half-asleep, I stumbled off the bus with nothing but my backpack and trekking poles into the dark of the downtown waterfront. The streets were nearly empty, hardly anyone outside in the calmest hours that come between days. I spent the previous days packing into a storage unit everything I took with me across country in my Subaru Impreza a few months prior, and meticulously packing and organizing everything I thought I needed to live the next four to six months on my own in the western wilderness, which included mailing myself a care package of Mountain Houses and Patagonia Provisions to towns every hundred miles or so in Warner Springs, Idyllwild and Big Bear Lake. Beyond that I sent a "bounce-bucket" to Wrightwood at mile 370--a five-gallon paint bucket filled with things like extra fuel canisters, shoe laces and more of my freeze-dried favorites--that together with my care packages I hoped would serve as incentive to help me make it the first 400 miles. I was exhausted from all the planning, packing and training, but propelled by a reserve of intense excitement that now everything was in place: in an unfamiliar city with everything I needed on my back and the rest of my life packed away, I felt like I'd slipped out of life and into a dream. That and I was also just really tired and really needed to crash--I was somewhere in between.

I walked the mile or so from the waterfront to the Motel 6 via a detour through the Gas Lamp District, because my sister said it was a cool place to check out; she lived in San Diego for a summer job in college working at the Zoo helping to program wildlife cameras. On top of the fact I could hardly process what time it actually was, the quiet streets and old-fashioned lamps transported me to a different time altogether. I took note of a 24-hour breakfast connected to one of the hotel lobbies and thought I would return after dropping my stuff off at the motel. It wasn't until I got there that I realized, 4:30am is a strange time to check-in, even at a Motel 6--too late for the previous night, and too early to check-in for the next. The receptionist was nice, however, and assured me a room would be ready as early as possible and that I should come back at 10am, which left me with nearly six hours with nothing to do but wander the streets of San Diego.

I returned to the 24-hour breakfast, which was surprisingly busy, with my bag and trekking poles and got a seat in a corner booth away from the bar. The place was an interesting confluence of people living on different days: party-goers still living in yesterday and slightly off-balance returned periodically through the hotel lobby and some people at the bar still drank alcohol while the rest of us were drinking coffee. When the waitress arrived she took one look at my bag and was suddenly quite excited, "Oh my gosh, are you a thru-hiker?" She asked. 

At this point, all I'd done is train for a bit over a month and show up in San Diego with a packed bag, so I felt uncomfortable claiming the mantle of 'thru-hiker', and wasn't sure if I ever would. I realized it didn't matter to her though, and started to understand that already I represented something much larger than myself, "Well I'm certainly excited to see how I go!" I smiled, "I'm on a bit of a walkabout and I'm just excited to be on an adventure and live outside for a while, and the trail has been a great motivator and something to help organize that idea around." It felt somehow arrogant, like a seemingly absurd goal to say out loud to a complete stranger and assert that yes indeed I wa thru-hiker of the 2,650 miles Pacific Crest Trail from hereabouts to Canada, much less that I actually hoped to make that dream a reality. I figured I had a much better chance if I broke it down into smaller, achievable pieces, in this case making it to my first care package in Warner Springs at mile 109.

The waitress long-since finished pouring my coffee but stuck around, "I love hiking! I had a feeling you were one of them - that and well, your bag and trekking poles make it kind of obvious! I'm planning to hike the John Muir Trail in June. I can't wait! Why are you hiking?"

The innocuous question struck me harder than I expected. She was just trying to make friendly conversation but I had no idea how to explain in small talk how I ended up here. "That's a good question!" I bought myself some time to think but was too tired to arrange my thoughts into anything but the truth, "I'm not really sure, to be honest. I'm lucky enough to have some time between things and I guess I need some time to think and test myself. I was in my first semester of an eight year MD/PhD program in Ohio and realized pretty quickly it wasn't for me, but I guess I am still looking for some kind of seemingly impossible challenge to throw myself against. That and me and my wife separated recently and are headed for divorce, so I need some space to process that. And I've always loved hiking!"

She took the overshare in stride, "wow, that's intense! Good for you though for taking a step back and making it happen though! I wish I could find the time. I hope you find what you're looking for out there. Oh, and are you ready to order?"

I laughed, appreciating that she seemed unfazed by what I still perceived as the failures that led me here, "Thanks so much! Yeah, I'll have the vegetarian omelet with hash browns and wheat toast please," ordering my go-to breakfast.

"Coming right up!" She smiled and seemed to skip away.

It felt good to be honest, even with a complete stranger. To acknowledge the past made it real, and maybe if I could talk about it that meant I was starting to move on. Something like that. Since I moved west I was riding a wave of hopefulness, and I didn't know how long it would last but I certainly hoped this was just the beginning.

It didn't take long for the waitress to return with a steaming hot plate of delicious looking food. When she dropped it off she paused again, "Hey I was thinking, it's been a really bad snow year and I'm not sure if the Sierras will be safe in time for my JMT trip. Are you on Instagram? I was wondering if I can follow you and you can be like my eyes and ears on trail and let know what it looks like out there."

Although she seemed earnestly interested in nothing but information, it was flattering in a weird way that this perfect stranger was so interested in and looking up to me as a thru-hiker and someone who could be relied on to report trail conditions more than a thousand miles from here. The fact that she didn't seem to doubt whatsoever I'd make it helped me believe that yeah, maybe I would actually make it that far! "Of course! I'd be happy to. I'm not on Instagram, but I do have Facebook, happy to communicate that way. Maybe I need to get on Instagram..."

"You definitely do! But sure, Facebook works! My name's Crys, by the way." 

"I'm Ben, it's nice to meet you!"

"Nice to meet you too! Thank you so much. Do you mind finding adding yourself on here?" She handed me her phone, Facebook search page already open. "And sorry, after that I'll let you dig in!"

I added myself as a friend, "No worries at all. Thank you for breakfast!"

-------Missing tooth smile elderly homeless man looking like Santa Claus riding bike down the street at 6am, first person to wish me Happy Easter. Found place at the periphery of a parking lot outside a church that felt like a safe place to sit and wait for 10am check-in. None of the people going to church, dressed to the nines acknowledged me in the slightest. I was more welcomed by the homeless.'---------------

I started the Pacific Crest Trail the next morning. I was dropped off alone, in part because I was too late in contacting the trail-angels Scout and Frodo, or anyone else for help. I did not know anyone in San Diego, at least not anyone I was comfortable asking for a place to stay the night of Easter Sunday, or for the forty-five minute ride through mountains and desert to the trail's Southern Terminus in the small border-town of Campo, California. And so I did what I knew how to do and stayed at the San Diego Motel 6; I didn't want to pay for the expensive hotels downtown, where 

At the Southern Terminus, I didn't see Frodo, but Scout and the rest of the large group arrived by caravan not long after I did. They certainly earn their title as trail-angels, as at least twenty hikers they hosted in their home and yard during the holiday got out of the vans and were all smiles. I recognized Scout from the photos on their website. He was tall with a very distinct white handlebar mustache to match his unkempt hair--like Einstein's, but shorter.

I immediately regretted not reaching out to him and Frodo earlier. Even though they host hundreds of hikers every year, it seemed like in just one night Scout had formed a personal connection with each of them, beaming with pride for the ambitious journey they were all about to embark on and for the role he could play in their sendoff, offering encouragement as well as some last minute advice to the group of wide-eyed adventurers. I don't know the origins of his trail-name, but 'Gandalf' would also suit him well. Perhaps Gandalf and Frodo would be too much Tolkien for one household.

It wasn't just Scout who seemed so warm and open--it seemed like all these strangers had always known each other, or that they were somehow already lifelong friends. Was I too late? Would I be the outsider? I would be alright, I thought. That was part of the reason I was here in the first place--to be alone. Everything I needed to survive in the wild was on my back, at least for the next three to four days until the next resupply. I already succeeded making it to the trail for the head-start I hoped for, and I believed I was otherwise well prepared to walk the twenty-one miles to the Lake Morena campground. After that, well, I would figure that out tomorrow. But I had no idea where the trail actually went from the monument, besides north, so I thought I might stall until I could nonchalantly follow someone else to the actual trail-head. And I still wanted to take some pictures anyways.

There was the border fence: on each panel a white number spray-painted. It was a curious structure, and a reminder that despite the barrenness of this place, it was distinct in that it was not just the middle, but also the edge of nowhere. The air of excitement surrounding the monument was in contrast to the visibly arid landscape stretching in every direction as far as I could see. Only shrubs and small trees grew here in the desert, with a few windmills scattered far away on the low hills. If not for the trail, I wondered if ever in my life I would be in this obscure place. It all seemed so arbitrary--the border and the location along it where someone decided the trail should begin. But there was beauty here, too. Despite how obscure and inhospitable it might seem on its dry surfaces, there was still life here, the people surrounding me were all excited and happy, and it was impossible not to sense the importance of this moment in my own life. I took a few pictures in the unfamiliar environment, and asked someone to take mine while I posed like everyone else for the cliche but necessary photograph alone with the monument.

On the hilltop, the low morning sun was not yet oppressive. Scout smiled knowingly, as if watching a familiar scene from his favorite movie, while photographers stepped backwards to position their long shadows off the monument and out of the pictures. After everyone had their turn posing alongside and climbing atop some part of the five vertical wooden beams of varying height, the monument now seemed lonely or awkward standing there alone while everyone stared. It was a moment of reverence, though, for the trail and so many things. Scout broke the silence and said, "C'mon everyone, let's get a group picture while you're all as clean as you're going to be for the next six months!" Everyone laughed, smiled and agreed. Few of us, if any, I think truly grasped the truth in his words. I hesitantly asked if I could be in the picture, since it seemed I was the only hiker there who was not a part of their Easter kick-off group. Of course I could, they said, motioning me over. So I put down my pack and went to stand on the outside of the group. Little did I know that many of the people in that photo would become some of my closest friends in the coming months and, I hope, lifelong friends as well.

Opposite the monument, another white van with a large PCT sign resting on its bumper was parked with one of those white fold-out tables beside it. A forest service volunteer sat behind it and I thought it would be prudent to hear what he had to say. Plus, I was still waiting for someone else to wander towards the actual trail for me to follow. I did not want to be 'that guy' -- the one remembered only for being obviously and already lost at mile zero. I thought I might never hear the end of it.

I was the first one at the table and learned that 'Terminus Tom', a trail-name he received later during his season as a volunteer for the forest service, hiked the trail in 2014 and was there to survey new hiker's about adherence to their assigned start-date, as well as give a brief talk about fire safety and proper bathroom practices on trail. He told me to hang on, however, because he did not want to repeat himself too many times, at least not in the same day. I understood, and in the meantime he asked whether I needed a Ziploc bag to pack-out my toilet paper. I didn't, but I read online that the further one walks up the trail the rarer a commodity Ziploc bags become, so I thought maybe I could use an extra to barter with other hikers for food or other items. I was already turning into a paranoid scavenger, essentially stealing Ziploc bags from the forest service. But I accepted his offer nonetheless and was pleasantly surprised when he handed me a high-quality, heavy-duty gallon bag. I prayed I never filled it completely with used TP.

I assumed he would check our permits. I was there on April 17th, relatively early in the PCT season and one of my best friends' birthday, because when I applied there was still one out of fifty spots available for today and every other day between now and mid-May was already fully reserved. I decided I would rather start on the earlier edge of the recommended window between late April and early May and thereby give myself a cushion if for whatever reason I needed to move slower than "average." I knew that to finish the trail in six months, before the snows fell in Washington's North Cascades, that I would need to hike about twenty miles each day so that my average stayed at about 17 miles per day when factoring in "zero-days," or days walking zero miles of the trail and instead spent in town replenishing calorie and internet connectivity deficits. Instead, Terminus Tom was the first to signal that our start dates were, at least at this point in the system's development, rather meaningless. He stated quite honestly, "Don't worry if this is not your assigned start-date, I'm not going to check your permits or anything and it really doesn't matter. We are just trying to assess how well the new system is working to stagger you all. Could you raise your hand if today is when you were supposed to start?"

Everyone raised their hand. We had all, presumably, carefully planned to get ourselves here exactly now. Either that, or despite the service-worker's sincerity some of us were still too uncomfortable to admit wrong-doing. I do not think I would have anyways. Either way, he seemed pleased as he counted heads and jotted down our contribution to his statistics.

"Thanks! Now, I just have a few things to say about established campsites, fire safety and bathroom practices if you don't mind sticking around." He seemed to enjoy meeting us and was sensitive to the time we were devoting to him. I found myself distracted, fascinated by the fact that sitting in front of me was someone who had already done what we all hoped to do: walk from right here all the way to Canada, a place that now seemed unimaginably far away from this hot, dry nowhere.

He gave examples of why it was important to use established campsites, how hikers could damage delicate meadows and other fragile ecosystems if large groups camped on them night after night, especially since they would then look more and more like said established campsites to subsequent groups and so the damage done would ripple and amplify as the hiking season progressed. It reminded me of something I read about how to make good 'leave no trace' decisions when unsure of the actual guidelines: even if an action seems harmless, multiply it by a thousand and imagine if it still seems so.

Continuing his prescribed talk, Tom provided various measures, like how much space to clear around a fire pit and how deep to dig our shit-holes.  It was necessary information to reiterate, and I guess someone had to do it. Once he finished his spiel we were able to chat with him about his own experience hiking the trail, what I think we were all much more interested in.

"Yeah, 2014 was a dry year. There was no water between here and Lake Morena, and plenty of thirty or more mile waterless stretches after that. You guys will be alright though; it's a wet year and there's water everywhere. How much are all of you carrying?"

Answers ranged from one to four liters. I had capacity to carry eight liters and was anticipating to use all of it. That's what I read that I should do--four liters, per person, per day in the desert--and I really did not want to take any chances of running out of water in a desert. Because dehydration seemed the most obvious threat to life here. I thought between eight liters, my life-straw and water purification tablets, I would be well on the safe side. But I lingered and didn't answer his question until after everyone else said their goodbyes.

"I was going to carry eight liters. Do you think that's too much?"

"Eight liters?" he said, clearly endeavoring to restrain his surprise. "It's a wet year, you definitely don't have to carry eight liters, there's water everywhere. Don't do that to yourself. Water is heavy. You should have more than enough with just four."

"Hmm, you're right--that would be heavy and probably overkill. Thank you! You saved me from carrying almost nine extra pounds!" I responded as I wondered whether I should defer to my own research on the matter and instead trust the representative of the forest service. I decided I would trust him. And from there to Canada, never once did I carry eight liters.

"You're welcome. Any other questions?"

"Nope, that's it. Thanks again for your help. I really appreciate it."

"That's why I'm here! Enjoy the trail!" He perked up a bit compared to when he was delivering his talk. I meant to ask where the trail actually started but the intent was lost in my racing thoughts, and even if I did remember I'm not sure if I would want to admit I was already lost even to the kind volunteer I now knew was a thru-hiker. I was still too proud to let anyone know how clueless I really was.

No one seemed to be going anywhere. I wanted to get started, since part of the reason I was here so early was to ensure sufficient time to walk the twenty-one miles to Lake Morena today. Especially now that I planned to carry less water, I did not want to spend my first night on trail in what I imagined as a barren, waterless no-man's-land between here and Lake Morena. It was probably about eight-thirty. I took one last look around to try to soak in the sense of adventure here in this grand moment of beginning before I walked down the hill, away from the monument and in the only direction down the dirt road that made sense: away from the border fence, which was, presumably, north. Only a few steps downhill towards the parking I spotted it: a bright orange cone on the ground next to one of Scout's two vans beside a trail leading into the brush. It was the most promising lead I had so far so I headed towards it. When I got closer, I smiled and was relieved when I saw the small Pacific Crest Trail emblem in the silver stripe at the top of the cone. I could already envision countless moments like this one in the months to come, when that same logo would mean I was in the right place, and mark my way home. I was on the Pacific Crest Trail, beginning the long walk to Canada.