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.
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.
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