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| What are the chances? |
It's been that kind of day. I got up this morning bursting with energy. I've been this way for a week. Last Friday I cracked that thick Korean War history and Saturday I brushed up on the old chi-square. Sunday I started a new chapter for the still-nameless Key to all Mythologies. This one is called, "From Onan to Eusebius of Nicomedia: Evolution of the Perfect Bureaucrat." It is going to be quite good. It could earn me a book deal.
I don't want to give the wrong impression. Mostly I've been distracted by thoughts of the John Muir Trail. I've got an open copy of Wenk's "John Muir Trail," and a stack of Harrison maps by the desk. As an added digression to the distraction, I've been reading up on gear and thru-hiking tips. Polyester or Down? Lightweight packs. Leave no trace. Dull stuff. I end up perusing the trail journals and daydream.
Got down to 28 degrees in my tent last night. It snowed. We woke up to bright blue skies. It was freezing. MeToo decided she had to get going. She said she would meet me in Bridgeport. I decided to stay in my bag till 7:30. It was still freezing, but I had to get going. After an hour I came to an ice-covered creek and made tea and watched the water flow under the ice in cool patterns.
SarahZod, June 6.
It was a magically happy 17-mile day. We hiked. We swam in the river. We ate a lot and talked about eating a lot. The we forded a river, and ran into our old pal Footsore. It's great getting back on the trail. I am totally lost in nature. I almost don't want to go to town. I feel like a spell will be broken. I'd rather sleep here amongst the pines near a rushing creek. Life is good.
Fullspeed, July 15
I know it's probably bad juju to be lurking in those blogs. I have no more chance of hiking the PCT than I do becoming the 5th Beatle. But this morning, after Lilalee left for work, I looked at the calendar and thought: in a week or two this year's PCT class is leaving from Campo for points north. That's when I got this wild hair to to drive up the hill and follow the PCT up to Islip saddle. I figured I'd be back in a couple of hours. Early afternoon at the latest. Onan and Eusebius could wait till then.
I jotted a quick note for Lilalee on a post-it, filled a water bottle and climbed in the car. I knew immediately it was the right decision. I needed time in the mountains. Then it occurred to me, I'd never seen the tunnel where the PCT crosses under I-15, or, for that matter, where the trail cross the Crest Highway south of Big Pine. And if I was doing that, I might as well take-in Vincent Gap, Islip Saddle, and Eagles Roost. Why not change plans? I am retired. I'm supposed to enjoy life.
I drove east on the 210. The day was grand. There was snow on Baldy. The blue sky was decorated with white puffs that sailed to the northeast.
I turned north on the I-15 and drove to the 138 exit. I pulled onto the big gravel apron where the PCT descends from Crowder Canyon. I hopped out of the car to get a better view of the tunnel that takes the trail under the freeway. Without further thought, I started walking: through the tunnel, under the railroad bridge and up to the first switchback. There was a grand view of the Mormon Rocks. I was tempted to keep on.
I returned to the car and drove on to Wrightwood where I bought a soda at Jensen's Market. From there I headed west. At Big Pines I turned onto the Crest Highway. A couple miles down the road, the trail crosses at Inspiration Point. I got out, walked to a copse of oaks with a grand view of the Mojave and drank my soda. Inspiration Point sits at about 7,000 feet. That's almost a 6,000 foot gain in just a couple hours. I was feeling the elevation. Before leaving, I follow the trace of the San Andreas fault out to the west. "Why not?" I think. "Why not track the trail all the way over to Agua Dolce?"
During the next 3 hours I made stops at Vincent Gap, Islip Saddle, Eagles Roost and Triple point. At each stop I walked just far enough to lose sight of the road and back.
A bit before 2, I got hungry and pulled into Newcomb's for a quick burger and Snapple. Before the food came, I remembered the story of Charity and Old Man Newcomb. I went to check for that old photo. It was still over the bar.
From Newcomb's, I took Upper Tujunga over to the Angeles Forest Highway. I pulled off at the Mount Pacifico trail crossing and watched a helicopter pluck an Edison linemen from a high tension tower. No one died so I didn't stay long. It was already midafternoon.
I got back on the road and sped down past Edison's sprawling complex of megawatt line switches and house-size transformers. I merged into the west-bound traffic on the 14. Twenty minutes later I exited at Agua Dolce. I turned onto Escondito Canyon Road drove over to where the trail comes down from Vasquez Rocks. It's bittersweet view. I hiked here once with a girl who had no interest in me. Then, for grins, I decided to cruise past Hiker Heaven. The gates were closed. Not an angel in sight. A month from now, Hiker Heaven will be swarming with north-bound hikers.
The thought of a northbound hike was inspiring. Why stop now? Why not just keep following the trail on up to the 58 and the start of the Sierras?
I retraced my route on the 14 east to Lancaster. At the 138 exit, I drove west about 25 miles to where the trail descends from Liebre Mountain. I parked on the south side of the road, walked 1/2 mile up the first slope and stared across the 40 hot miles of Antelope Valley that awaits the PCTers. The wind was picking up and I could just trace out the aqueduct that marks the hike north. I decided I would try to follow the trail by the backroads.
I wended my way slowly through the Lancaster backcountry. I didn't really know where I was going. I didn't have a map or a smartphone. I never got a good look at the trail. I depended on the Tehachapis for direction.
After an hour I stumbled across Willow Springs Road. (Luck counts!) I turned north. I passed several large irrigated fields and an abandoned mine which sat like a spider on the skeletal remains of a mountain. There, just past the mine, the wind machines came into view. A thousand wind machines. All sparking white. Most spinning a graceful mesmerizing, ritual dance that could appease a god of time. When I got to the the Oak Creek crossing, I climbed out of the car. I walked around for 20 minutes, but could not find the track. It was there, and only there, under the spinning of the wind machines that the trail was lost to me.
I got back in the car and drove the last stretch north to the 58. I headed east for the Cameron Canyon exit. I used the overpass to park on the north side. I got out and stretched. The first slopes of the Sierras hovered above. I decided to get a view of the Mojave. The shadows were getting long. I grabbed my half-full water bottle and headed up . I walked for nearly an hour. I stopped at the first crest. The Mojave stretched out to the east under a darkening sky. It was the only time I regretted my camera.
By the time I got back to the car the sun was sinking into the notch of the Tehachapi Pass. I was thirsty, dusty and sweaty. I needed to call home.
I headed east on the 58 and south on the 14 to Mojave. I just rolled in. It's dusk. I hadn't been thinking I would stay here. I don't have a toothbrush or clean underwear. But then I see this sign. I don't care if it is bogus; it seems like a message. I decide to stay the night. I know Lilalee will understand.
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| Taken the next morning with a borrowed camera |