hobolog :: Pacific Crest Trail Hike

This 1700-mile hike along the Pacific Crest Trail with my good friend Peter Bergman took us through the mountains and deserts of California from the Mexican border up to Oregon. Neither of us had ever done anything like this, and the journey gave shape to much of the rest of my life. I attempted narrate the adventure with a mini cassette recorder, but I was never able to get more than a summary of each day from these. Pete’s written journals survived much better, and his symbolic sensibility contributed to some very unique records of the trip. Enjoy.

Following a plan of Pete’s, each day I took a picture of him with a disposable panoramic camera. We tried to pick a spot representative of the day’s terrain, and I carefully paced out the same distance from Pete for every shot. Pete, keeping mental track of the sequence, changed his pose slightly every day. He never changed clothes for the pictures – what you see is what he hiked in. Because of the changing lighting, you have you focus closely on Pete to catch everything. It’s interesting to flip through the movie frame by frame, but at full speed the whole trip takes only about 15 seconds. May I present, the flipbook.

Forward: My mom and I walked into the C&R Clothiers on Clairmont Mesa Boulevard in San Diego. I was a Sophomore in College and she was down visiting. In addition to the usual meaningful conversations, walks on the beach, and graciously accepted fancy meals, she was to intervene on my naive student life in a new way that day.
“Can I help you?”
“Uh, yea. I have to, uh… I need to buy a suit.” He smiled, more friendly than condescendingly, looked at me, then my mom.
“What is the occasion?”
“My sister is getting married.” He quickly exchanged some words with my mom about price ranges. I had been doing the talking; yet, it was clear who was in control of the situation. He led us over to wall rack.
“So,” addressing me again,” “This will basically be the only suit you will ever own. You will wear it to your sisters wedding, to job interviews, to funerals?”
Mom and I both chuckled at his rhetorical question.
“Yes.”
It was a reasonably priced single breasted two piece. Black with faint gray pin stripes. The all purpose model. Scores of specific questions came at me regarding the tailoring.
“Would you like cuffed pant legs?”
“Uh… No.” He winced a little and looked at my mom for help. They didn’t want me to look like a square and it was clear I didn’t know the fashion. “OK. Cuffs are fine.” As he wrote down some final measurements and Mom began to open her purse, I was allowed to roam free in order to pick out a tie. The one I liked was a burgundy red with a pattern of small and sufficiently spaced blue and white diamonds. Mom was “shocked,” that I would choose for myself, “such a conservative tie.”

Near Campo, CA

It’s like we parachuted onto a different planet. We’ve spent a long time preparing for this, but we aren’t prepared. All we can do is walk. It doesn’t take long before we have the map & compass out. We’re crawling through chemise, getting scratched and gouged, learning navigation the hard way. Finally we find the trail and walk in hot, hilly terrain until our legs rebel. No amount of stretching seems to appease them.

Day 1: First day. Night rather. I have my head lamp on in order to write this. We’re camped in a small, ten by ten, clearing twenty yards from the trail. The sand is accommodating. We are hidden by a thicket of virtually impenetrable brush called “Chemise.”

A mere hour after farewells at the border, we had the displeasure of walking through such dense and biting plant cover for about a mile. Our first wrong turn. A topographic map and compass did help to effectively relocate the trail. It gave us a great deal of confidence to see it cutting up the hillside, right where the line on the paper said it would be. The country here is surprisingly nice. We passed all five hikers that signed the border trail register yesterday. I guess we hike at a good clip. I already lost something. My writing paper & pen. Dyl let me borrow his pen. I found a Cheerios box at the Lake Morena campground where we had our dinner. Cut it up and writing on cardboard for now. The horizon is ever reaching north. Leaving Siri, my girlfriend, back at the border was the only thing that could have made this a sad day. The idea to do this walk was proposed perhaps three or four years ago. Making it from that day to this day was quite a journey in and of itself. Twenty some illegal immigrants were arrested today in Hauser Canyon. Didn’t see a one off ‘em. Must now turn off the head lamp so as not to alert the night time drug smugglers.

Near Pine Valley, CA

I lost my phone and address list as well.
We are at about 6000 ft. in a beautiful, but chilly, meadow adorned with green grass and large pines. This evening I laid back and watched clouds whip across a nearby hill and dissipate through the tree tops. It is a very peaceful life so far.
Met “Fiddlehead” out hiking this morning. We have now been introduced to the concept of the “trail name.” Tonight we have set up the tent for the first time as it seems like its going to get real cold.

Near Julian, CA

The sense of adventure really starts to set in when we pick up our first small resupply box in Laguna Mountain. A cold, windy, foggy morning. We take turns getting warm by the heat lamp in the bathroom. We know we need extra water for the near waterless Anza Borrego trail ahead, but the hills, trees, clumps of boulders and soft earthy trail we’ve just walked give us no idea what to expect.

Near Warner Springs, CA

The problems we face now bear no resemblence to any we’ve ever faced. Carrying heavy water punishes the feet, brings exhaustion. Running out of water causes not only painful thirst, but also alters perception. We have to filter 38 miles worth of water from a spring choked with poison oak. Then we misread the map, take a wrong turn down a winding road. The climb back up is incredibly hot. The beauty of the desert isn’t lost on us. We are lost in it.

There is something psychologically unsettling about trudging headstrong into 40 miles of terrain that isn’t meant to, and doesn’t, support human life.

We woke up two frost cakes. A thin veneer of stiff white over our sleeping bags. Walking, and the rising sun, warmed up the land. A wrong turn that, initially, didn’t matter dropped us a 1/4 mile from our side trip for water. The spring bubbled out of a ravine. The rivulet flowed down canyon fifteen feet before disappearing in the sand. Poison oak, quite familiar to me as I was coming off a fresh pre trip case, choked the small stream bed. Dylan had to wind and maneuver for ten minutes to a person sized perch on a water side rock. Filtering enough water for two people over 38 miles required about forty minutes of perching. Hunched and still, he endured and dipped water.

Our initially harmless wrong turn led us to a mistaken map read, grueling hot descent, and corrective ascent back, before lunch. Dylan had an umbrella affixed to his pack for shade. The afternoon was HOT and dry. As the trail winds down into the San Felipe valley, it turns the wrong way to avoid hostile land owners. Dylan and I cursed them. The ridge traverse was seemingly endless. Tonight we camped on the far side of the valley. The San Felipe hills rise at our backs. They lead out of the desert valley to Barrel Springs. A full day still ahead to water. Were “slap-happy” from exhaustion.

Near Warner Springs, CA

After a long, long day of contouring through the dry San Felipe hills, we pull into paradise. At last, cottonwoods, grass, fresh water. And singing cowboys. No place is perfect. We wash up, sink into bliss.