Two months ago I was sitting on a leather couch in an air conditioned room with a frozen beverage in hand taking a virtual tour of the PCT on a six foot flat screen TV/ computer monitor. Rick, as my satellite tour guide for southern California and Rachel as my companion in audience captivity. A red line zigzagged randomly across the magnified desert floor. Individual scrub plants visible and hundreds of crisscrossing paths under an imposed red line like the leavings of Zoro with a sharpie on a photographic map. “look at this! You’re over here then your over there. You walk all this way around over here just to get back to right there, when you get to this hill just go that way.” I wanted to reply something like “yeah, what’s that gps coordinate?” or “sure, I’ll go highlight that spot on my map.” But I had neither GPS nor a map. I was along on the remote control satellite tour ride for sightseeing only. Looking out for significant landmarks that once on the ground I might be able to recognize them from their bird’s eye portrait now on the big screen. “I can’t understand why anyone would want to hike down there, ugly country boy.” “hey look, you walk through the mojave right next to the Edwards air force base, oh man, then look at this climb.” “when you get to those windmills your in for a kick in the ass, but then you’ll be in the Sierras. That will be nice.” “but cold.” The red line walked right over the shadows of a windfarm and then up a canyon into the Sierras. It was a long up, we had to scroll page up twice to get to the next downhill. I found the landmark I was looking for.
A week ago I was in an epic battle with my pack and a mtn. I had the mtn licked no problem, I mean my legs burned and my head was down, but the mtn would fall under my heel just like the last. But the backpack had taken to fighting dirty and was working on cutting me in half right at my pant’s waiste. A hundred steps further into the mtn and the false summit showed his bluff and gave us a view of the real summit, a mile off and a thousand feet higher. “Where the hell is the easy section of this section?” my words flew over the ridge and dissappeared into the void. It was not that the Socal mtns were slowly beating me, I just never felt the super light pack from constant town resupply I was promised, and for the most part hitchhiking and trail magic didn’t seem to be part of the pct’s game. As I completed one of the biggest and most frustrating switchbacks to date I rolled over the top of a hill and found a child sized plastic skeleton hanging from a tree. Behind him, in the first shade we had seen in hours, was a gaggle of lawn chairs, an ice chest and a trash can. The cooler was topped off with Shasta brand knock off flavors and beer. The water filling the cooler was recently ice and the beverages went down smooth. The ledger said “oasis” on the front and had a letter from The Andersons taped to the inside cover. It read, “blah blah blah … 7 miles downhill blah blah blah taco salad everynight pancakes every morning. “Oh, here’s that awesome section I was promised.” Soda coma and late afternoon sun put us down for the night, we folded the camp chairs and pushed them out of the way, pitched tent and made the Anderson’s Oasis our home.
The next day was seven miles down hill to taco salad and the Anderson’s home. We pitched our tents in the backyard, ate ten pounds of taco salad for dinner and made friends with Joe and Terry. Joe and Terry Anderson are number two of three trail angels right in a row on the trail. The first, “hiker’s paradise” is in Aqua Dulce and ran by a wonderful former thru hiker Donna Saufley. We spent one night there coming back from LA and are told we hit the place on an off night. Nice and hospitable, but no raging party. The Anderson’s was also quiet our first night, but by noon on the second day I was surrounded by the biggest group of thru-hikers I had ever seen. We were incined to zero and scope out the new crop of colleagues. July found a trail name, (Rainbow Brite or Trail of Tears depending on her mood) she even found a Rando who she trusted enough to help her loose five pounds out of her pack. On the second morning at the Anderson’s we hit the trail well rested well fed and finally feeling some light pack action.
Uphill into the mtns, around a corner and downhill to the desert floor, downhill to hiker town. Hiker Town is an interesting place, owned by an eccentric “Richard” from the movie bussiness, the whole place is done up like an old western town. Hot showers, hot dogs, keys to a car and a C-store close by. Richard’s hiker town has been known to have legendary raging parties and lamborgini rides and who knows what other kind of debauchery. Unfortunately Richard was not around.
And neither was the crowd. The 8 of us that were there had a reasonable serving of butter fried hot dogs and adult sodas before we hiked on in the night. The wonderful thing about hiker town is it’s placement. The last possible place for a stop before the infamous aquaduct walk and Mojave bottom. The barley sodas and the new like minded group of hikers emboldened us to try a little desert night hiking. So we cleaned up our butter orgy mess and pushed on against the trail at sunset.
The last minutes of daylight provided enough light for good reflection on the section we had just finished. The desert, the inhospitable, uninhabitable had been our home for the last month and half and had been quite plesant as well as hospitable. So far, our plan of getting a jump on mother nature and crossing the desert in early spring had worked perfectly. We encountered rattle snakes and deer, foxes and coyotes. Climbed mtns, carried 30 miles worth of water, slept at randos houses, and walked 600 miles. The only thing that stood between us and where “the real hike begins” was the thirty mile paved over aquaduct. But our butter dog battle of the bulge and beer got the best of us and all 8 of us layed out under the stars like bums. Those windmills would have to wait for tomorrow sunrise.
