Zero Days Page 19
Our lodging was delightful. Warner Springs dates back to 1844 as a ranch, and to 1900 as a resort. Families own shares in the cottages, which can be rented out when not in use by shareholders. Our little cottage had a double bed, a single roll-out bed for Mary, a small bathroom, and plenty of closet space, plus a little porch and a lawn. Mary loved the bay window, big enough for her to sprawl in comfortably with a book.
There was no telephone in the room, and no television, which suited me just fine. Many Warner Springs shareholders must agree that getting away from televisions is a good thing; there was only one TV set in the entire place—it was even marked on the map given to visitors—and it was tucked out of the way in a games room behind the library. I saw no one using it while we were there. Although the cottages lacked phones, for essential communications, there was a pay phone between our cottage and the laundry/library/games building. That’s another pattern we set at Warner Springs: I would dig out a phone card and our list of phone numbers, and make calls to friends, relatives, the travel editor at the Los Angeles Times (which ran a four-part series based on my trail journals), and possibly a motel at our next town stop. Gary hates making phone calls, so that became my job at each stop. (Mary loves using the phone, but we didn’t want her using up all our phone card time, so we limited her calls.) We slept well at Warner Springs, and the next morning ate across the street at the Golf Grille, where I obtained something I’d been craving for a week: a daily newspaper. Then we opened our resupply box, repacked everything, mailed excess food and medications to the neighbor who was taking care of our house, and donated a roll of toilet paper to the hiker box at the post office.
WE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO EXPECT from town stops—it’s one of those experiences that can’t be fully understood from reading other people’s descriptions. Gary had spent many hours planning each stop, poring over trail guides and the internet. He paid particular attention to the days and hours during which backpackers could pick up their boxes, whether at post offices, motels, stores, or even gas stations.
A wonderful town stop, Warner Springs gave us confidence that our resupply boxes would be waiting for us at each stop (they were) and that we could take care of all of our town chores and still get in some relaxation time (not always the case). But even when our town stops were rushed, they provided us with a chance to fulfill our three major desires: get clean, eat more food, and sleep in beds.
Not all backpackers find town stops so rewarding. For some, they are almost more stressful than they’re worth. Some thru-hikers get to the post office and discover their resupply boxes failed to arrive. That launches them into a frenzied search through hiker boxes and stores, trying to find enough food, first-aid supplies, and additional gear to reach the next town. If something essential is in the missing box—the next section’s maps and guidebook chapters, for example, or an ice ax—the thru-hiker must consider staying in town an extra day or two, wasting time and running up motel and restaurant bills, while making frantic phone calls to track down the wayward resupply box. Some thru-hikers buy their supplies along the trail, rather than sending boxes, and they too must find enough food and supplies for the next leg of the trip from the often slender amenities in little resort town stores. For those who do send boxes, post office hours become a limiting factor. Sometimes a post office located within a store or gas station is open only a couple hours a day. Even regular post offices close on Sundays and usually have short hours on Saturdays. For three days in a row in northern California, we got up at 4:30 a.m. in order to make the mileage necessary to wind up at Seiad Valley before the post office closed on a Saturday. We knew we would have stuff to mail back—books and some extra first-aid supplies—so we had to get there in time to retrieve the box, open it, sort everything, repack the box, and mail it. Only after those chores did we buy quarts of Gatorade at the store next to the post office and sit down in the shade to read the personal letters and color comics my sister had thoughtfully added to the box before sealing it. For hikers who have become accustomed to the freedom of determining their own schedules on the trail, having to comply with post office and store hours all of a sudden is a major downer.
These stresses are small compared to the pressure some thru-hikers feel at town stops to drop out. The pressure comes from two directions: from themselves and from the relatives, sweethearts, and friends they call on the phone. If a backpacker is having a lot of foot trouble or is falling behind schedule, worrying about the weather, running out of money, or just losing interest in the trail, a town stop is where the temptation arises to call it a trip. Especially in southern California, town stops are located on or near major east-west highways from which one can easily zip into Los Angeles—with its airports and bus stations and car rental agencies—in just a few hours. Phone calls home can ratchet up the pressure tremendously. We had a huge advantage in this regard—my relatives were incredibly supportive of our trip, as was Nancy, the neighbor taking care of the house and pets. And the travel editor at the Los Angeles Times, of course, was always eager for more material. But often, a thru-hiker makes those obligatory phone calls and discovers that a sweetheart is lonely, a spouse is wrestling with unexpected problems at home, an elderly relative is ailing, or a job possibility has suddenly opened up. A town stop is sort of like a holiday, one that recurs every week or so—you get to open a box of goodies and talk to friends and eat a lot, but you also have to deal with all the scheduling and relationship stresses that make some people dread the holiday season. Town stops are where homesickness, doubts, and guilt can really take hold.
While Warner Springs was a well-run, smoothly oiled resort catering to the well-off, our next stop, on Day 14, was the funky but friendly Tahquitz Inn, up in the San Jacinto Mountains, in the resort town of Idyllwild. We got off the PCT at Mile 179, followed the steep Devil’s Slide Trail down to the edge of town, and hitched a ride to the motel. Mary didn’t care if the lights didn’t all work or if the flooring was worn. She considered the place cozy and was happy to be under a roof, with a new activity as well: cataloging the kitchen gadgets. Here’s what she wrote in her journal:
Day 14: We hiked to Idyllwild. I got my own bedroom! Our room even has a fully equipped kitchen: stove, silverware, dishes, cups and glasses, baking sheets, crock pot, colander, freezer, refrigerator.
A couple days later, we got off the trail and caught a ride south so we could attend the Annual Day Zero Pacific Crest Trail Kick Off. This event at the end of April is held at a big county campground just 20 trail miles from the Mexican border. We took our first zero day, loaded up on the free food that trail fans provide for thru-hikers, and picked up the all-important water report. Gary and I enjoyed talking with other thru-hikers and becoming part of the PCT community. Mary enjoyed playing with a little girl about her age and pigging out at a nearby store. Then we got a lift back north and resumed walking.
Our next true town stop was Big Bear City, on Day 22 and Mile 274. The high point there, at least from an entertainment point of view, was our post office visit. At every other post office, before and after Big Bear, we were treated well and often received valuable help from postal employees who enjoyed helping thru-hikers. Occasionally, we photographed our visits to show us signing the trail register and receiving our box. At Big Bear, Gary headed in to retrieve the supply box, while Laurence, the trail angel who had given us a ride to town, carried the camera. Mary and I waited in the back of the pickup truck. Much sooner than we expected, Laurence came hurrying back to the truck, a rueful expression on his face. It seems the postmistress had taken the Patriot Act and Homeland Security a little too seriously. She had chased Laurence out with threats and declarations that it was “against the law” to take photographs in a U.S. post office. (I found out later that there isn’t any law forbidding picture taking; it’s at the discretion of the postmaster or postmistress.) Laurence beat a hasty retreat and Gary left a sarcastic reference to the postmistress in the trail register.
By the time we reach
ed Cajon Pass on Day 26, with 342 miles accounted for, we had the essentials down pat: get the supply box; rent the room, take showers and wash clothes; eat and drink (although not necessarily in that order); then eat and drink some more. Cajon Pass isn’t a town, exactly. It’s more of a wide spot on the road between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Interstate 15 is a very busy freeway, and the wide spot is home to a gas station, McDonald’s, and a motel. McDonald’s presence is even noted on the trail, where a sign notifies hikers that the Guffy Campground is 22.1 miles straight ahead, but McDonald’s is only four tenths of a mile to the right. What backpacker can resist the lure of cheeseburgers and cold drinks less than half a mile off the trail? Usually, we cleaned up before entering an eating establishment, so as not to offend the other customers. The weather had been very hot and we were a week away from our last showers. But McDonald’s clearly wanted our business, and it was right along the way to our motel. We marched in, propped our packs against a table, and got in line. This was the first time we had eaten out while still in full backpacker regalia, so it was the first time we witnessed other diners’ reaction to our scruffy presence. People looked at us askance, but quickly returned to the business of eating. We, on the other hand, could barely keep from staring. Accustomed to each other’s emaciated appearances, everyone else looked so fat!
Next on the itinerary was Agua Dulce, 454 trail miles from the border, on Day 33. We stayed at Jeff and Donna Saufley’s Hiker Heaven, of course, which lived up to every possible expectation for trail magic. But the town of Agua Dulce itself deserves mention. In this hiker-friendly community, we felt at ease the minute we saw the big sign welcoming PCT backpackers on the porch of the Sweetwater Farms grocery store. (Agua dulce is Spanish for “sweet water,” a phrase picked up by the grocery store and by another hiker-friendly establishment, the Sweetwater Café.) The staff was kind, the sandwiches delicious, and the store well-stocked. First we ate our sandwiches and fruit smoothies, on the large porch with its inviting tables and chairs, and then we moved on to dessert. Gary handed Mary a bag of Toll House cookie bars—which are a lot closer to candy than cookies and are very good—and offered Mary a dollar if she could eat the entire bag. A woman at a nearby table looked horror-stricken at the image of a father bribing his daughter to overindulge in calorie-laden snacks. If she had known that Mary had lost several pounds from her already slender frame, she might not have been so shocked. That night, we dined at Maria Bonita’s Mexican restaurant, where, to our surprise, we actually had trouble eating all the food on our plates, the servings were so large. The next day Mary made friends with a cat with the accurate but not particularly creative name of Beige Kitty, the friendliest of the pets in the hardware store. Meanwhile, Gary and I bought duct tape and got directions to the nearest town where we could purchase items the store didn’t stock. And in nearby Santa Clarita, which we visited with a loaner car from the Saufleys, we found a large used-book store and replenished Mary’s dwindling supply of reading material.
Then it was back into the desert for six days of heat on the way to the town of Mojave, at Mile 558. Many thru-hikers take their town stops in Tehachapi, which is bigger and more pleasant than Mojave. But many thru-hikers count on doing a lot of hitchhiking. We had decided ahead of time to hitchhike as seldom as possible, so on Day 40 we were left with Mojave, where White’s Motel offered free transportation from trailhead to motel and back.
We avoided hitchhiking for three main reasons: First, it’s easy for a single person to catch a ride, and not much harder for two. But how many drivers in the mood to pick up extra passengers have enough room for three people with bulging backpacks plus a pair of trekking poles? Not many, we figured. Second, hitchhiking is too unreliable. Backpackers who move really fast can afford to waste an hour or two (and sometimes much more) waiting to catch a lift into town, and then getting back to the trail. But we were plodders, by comparison, and tortoises can’t afford to waste half a day sticking out their thumbs. And third, although Gary has extensive experience traveling by thumb, he agreed with me that it might not be safe. The stories we heard from other backpackers certainly bore that out. A high percentage of the drivers willing to give rides are either drunk or loony, we concluded. A married couple told us about the man who gave them a lift in the back of his pickup truck. As they perched on his load of fruit from eastern Washington, they wondered which would kill them first: the biting cold or the man’s reckless driving.
Our thru-hiker buddy Chacoman told us about a couple of his experiences that reinforced our decision to avoid hitch-hiking. In one case, a young man of about 19 gave him a lift at Sonora Pass in the central Sierra, a particularly remote spot notorious for poor ride prospects. The young man, who was driving, seemed normal enough, but his passenger, who was also his father, was anything but. The old man appeared to have already imbibed a couple drinks and repeatedly ordered his son to make senseless stops or detours. What started out as a long hitchhike ride began to seem interminable. Finally, as they drew near to Chacoman’s point of departure, the old man began talking about wanting to murder someone. All this time, the son had been calm and patient, and the father had been drinking and ranting. But when Chacoman asked why he wanted to kill this particular individual, it was the son who turned around and said, “Because he tried to kill my brother.” Suddenly, Chacoman felt a chilling certainty that this was no joke on the father’s part, taking advantage of a captive audience to pull the leg of some gullible stranger, but was serious business. By the time they stopped at a parking lot in Sonora, the old man had passed out, and Chacoman quickly went his way.
His second cautionary hitchhiking tale involved a driver who believed he was being followed by a police officer. The driver had an open container of beer in his truck, and was grateful to pick up a passenger who could pretend that he, not the driver, was the drinker. At one time, many states allowed open containers of liquor in vehicles, as long as the driver wasn’t indulging. (Go back far enough, and people could legally drink while they were driving.) By the time of Chacoman’s experience, all West Coast states had passed laws prohibiting open containers, period, but this driver may very well have been unaware of the change and viewed a hitchhiker as divine intervention. That he himself was no angel was proved by a brief conversation at the end of the drive. “Later, when he dropped me off and I couldn’t open the door because there was no door handle, he told me that his wife had broken it off earlier in the day when they had been fighting,” Chacoman recalls.
So we were relieved in Mojave to have the promise of transportation. We were hot, dry, and thirsty as we approached Tehachapi-Willow Springs Road and I used our cell phone to call the motel owner, who promised he’d be right out. Sure enough, we barely had time to take off our packs when he drove up in a van with plenty of room for our gear. Our motel room was modest but comfortable. I had to walk a couple blocks to the laundromat. But McDonald’s was right next door!
Besides offering rides, White’s Motel provided us with the additional benefit of meeting other thru-hikers. Leprechaun and Leatherfeet, whom we first met at Agua Dulce, showed up there. We also met Pineneedle, whom we subsequently ran into off and on all the way to Kennedy Meadows. Our Mojave stop exemplifies the changes that can occur from year to year. We had a good experience at White’s, but during a later year, some thru-hikers reported a much less pleasant time. Soon after that, it changed hands and now probably provides an entirely different experience. These little motels tend to change ownership frequently. The big chains maintain certain standards, but the character of the small-town, individually owned motels can vary dramatically depending on who’s in charge.
Mojave—at least the part of it we saw—had the look and feel of a dying town. I’m a small-town native, and I know what a community looks like when it’s on the skids. Storefronts were either empty or rented by businesses catering to people with little disposable income. The laundromat was untidy and not all the machines were functioning. The sidewalk and street seemed too
big for the amount of traffic they had to bear. Thrift stores were the sole growth industry. Now, I have nothing against thrift stores. We visited two in Mojave looking for a used paperback for Mary, and found what we needed on the second try. When Mary was little, most of her clothes came from thrift stores; we didn’t have much money to spare, and buying her clothes there meant it didn’t matter if her outfits became stained or torn. Even today, if Mary needs a costume for a school play, Goodwill is my first choice, followed by Salvation Army outlets, and I have found some real deals for myself, too. But it’s a bad sign when the thrift stores appear to be providing the bulk of a town’s sales tax revenues.
And then we reached Kennedy Meadows, the Holy Grail for serious backpackers. It’s the end of the beginning, and for some, the beginning of the end. By the time we got there, after 703 miles and seven weeks on the trail, I had abandoned most of my standards concerning schedules, nutrition, personal cleanliness, and comfort. They didn’t matter anymore. The important thing—really, the only thing—was that we got there, in high spirits and good health. Mary expressed our common feeling in her journal:
Day 48: Southern California done!
Kennedy Meadows is a major landmark along the PCT. It’s where the desert ends and the Sierra begins. It’s where thru-hikers pick up their ice axes and crampons, and mentally prepare for ice, snow, and mountain thunderstorms, not to mention bloodthirsty mosquitoes and hazardous stream crossings. It’s where some backpackers begin their treks, choosing to skip the southern desert section entirely. And it’s where some backpackers drop out, deciding that they’ve been through more than enough on the first portion of the PCT, and aren’t ready for anything more challenging.