Mr. New Boots (PCT)

Bottom line: Blisters are a tenderfoot hiker’s reward.

Prim8's new Hoka hiking boots. Blister preventers?

11.10.21

Mr. New Boots, that is Prim8 equipped with new hiking boots, and I had arrived at our rendezvous point at the terminus of state road 173 in advance of "Wrong-way" Mark. There, we discovered 173, now blocked off, had been a through road leading from the relative flat terrain nearer Hesperia into the mountains to Lake Arrowhead.

Wide open terrain. We’ve made progress, Prim8.

Out of the mountains? Prim8 replied.

Not entirely.

I’d grown tired of the elevation gains and losses over the miles we’d hiked around Big Bear, but I knew full well, implied by the name, the Pacific Crest Trail had many more hills and mountains to ascend and descend before our journey’s goal will be reached.

Since our last jaunt, Prim8 and I purchased a pair of Hoka Stinson One hiking boots in hopes of warding off pesky foot blisters, the bane of many hikers. Prim8 had had enough of dealing with blisters and I wasn’t too happy about them, either. We hoped we’d solved the blister conundrum and our feet would hike in bliss, having achieved footwear nirvana.

"Add another mile or so to our hiking distance tomorrow," Mark said.

What? "Another mile?"I pictured our 24.5-mile hike down hill towards the Whitewater Preserve some months ago.

We left my car at road end, turned parking lot, in anticipation of our arrival on foot the next day. Then, Mark drove us into Big Bear where Prim8 and I stuffed ourselves with Mexican barbacoa, aka slow cooked meat, washed down with beer, before retiring to our motel room.

11.11.21 Crab Flats to PCT/173 Junction

Up at 4:45AM, we brewed coffee in our rooms, snacked on dried fruit, and consumed bacon prepared by Mark, both pork and turkey, before we set off for our trailhead destination at Crab Flats.

The chilled air and starry sky portended a good weather day.

I sucked down additional coffee as best I could as we bounced around over the rutted gravel/dirt road, generally unfit for most vehicles and designed OHV, aka off-highway vehicle. In the meantime, both Mark and I drank water from disposable plastic bottles, in order to maximize our levels of hydration. I discovered long ago that water is not weightless, so I’ve developed the practice of drinking my fill before the day’s hike, though I carry a prudent supply, as well. Nothing good comes from dehydration.

Last minute gear checks completed and packs donned, we walked away from Mark’s vehicle.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"7AM," Mark replied.

A tad later than we’d hoped.

"And what’s the temperature?"

"I’ve got 43 degrees," Mark said.

"Good temperature," I said. "It’s easier to get warmer, than cooler." I knew we’d warm up within a few minutes from hiking exertion.

All the while, I consoled Prim8 with the delusion that we’d lose elevation, 2301 feet, over the course of our day’s hike. But, you have to know, that the PCT meanders up, around and down mountainsides! So, the accumulated elevation gain would be 240 feet and the elevation loss would be 2414 feet, which amounts to a 2654-foot differential. Doesn’t sound like much, but everything adds up.

And the trail led us up, around and down.

Rest a minute.

After a brief pause, I continued onward.

Grab a snack.

My leg muscles and feet aching with fatigue, I'd found another excuse to rest a minute.

I hiked some more. The trail wound along, overlooking Deep Creek drainage.

Nice view of fall colors. Pause for a scenic photo.

Though the area remains in drought, fall colors show in Deep Creek Canyon.

The ache of my leg muscles had deepened.

What’s with this?

With clear sky above, temperatures climbed into the low-mid 70s. An occasional light breeze lifted my spirit.

And we’ve got shade now and then.

The trail continued up, down, and around. Up, down, and around.

How are you doing, feet?

Aside from the ache and fatigue, I detected no blisters.

"Wrong-way" Mark pauses for a rest on the opposite side of

the rainbow painted arch bridge which crosses Deep Creek.

When I caught up with Mark, who's been leading the way, on the opposite side of the arch bridge which crosses Deep Creek, he said, “You’re eight minutes behind me. Not bad.”

"Could’ve fooled me," I said. "We must be getting close." I meant to my car.

"Another 4 miles from here," Mark said.

Ugh, Prim8 said.

Slog it out, fella.

Having crossed Deep Creek and with the trail direction shifted westward, we came into full sun. The sun, on its late afternoon downward leg and lower in the sky, however, didn’t scorch us.

Though seemingly forever to come into sight, the trail winding this way, then that, we approached the Mojave River Dam.

Nearly there. Then, another mile to go.

My legs and feet continued their ache.

What’s the damage done this time?

We followed a gravel road about half a mile on gentle rising terrain to the tunnel where Deep Creek flows. Here, we faced foot-deep water about twenty-feet across. After removing my boots and socks in preparing to fjord the Deep Creek, my iPhone took a bath.

Plop! A short, tiny little dink. What could that be?

I spotted my iPhone resting in a few inches of water. "Crap, I dropped my phone in the water," I said, as I retrieved it. I gave it a good shaking and hoped for the best.

"You probably shouldn’t carry it on your belt," Mark said.

"Yeah, I know," I said. "I wanted it handy to take photos, but I guess the belt holder wasn’t designed for hiking." Should’ve learned that lesson when your phone fell off earlier in the day, twice.

I trudged the remaining distance to my car, dreading learning of my phone’s fate.

Seated in my car, "Where’s our motel?" I asked Mark. By that I meant, what was our drive route to get there.

"Let me check," Mark said as he searched on his phone.

"I guess I’ll bite the bullet and check mine," I said. Come on, baby.

Seconds passed.

"It came on! I can’t believe it," I said. Next time, carry it in your pocket, fool.

In Crestline we enjoyed another Mexican meal, washed down with beer.

"I’m knackered," I told Mark. "My muscles and feet ache."

"I’d like to start a little later tomorrow morning," he said. "Maybe, we can shorten our hike a little."

"That’s okay by me. I’m gonna be soar and stiff the next couple of days."

"I may just schedule a massage for when I get home," Mark said. "And I’d like to beat the rush hour traffic on the way home."

"Wrong-way" got no quarrel from me.

Our cars with us at the motel, we decided on a later start and shorter hike of 9.3 miles.

Done deal.

We’d hiked 21.5 miles and my body knew it.

Settled into the motel room, I wondered whether a shower, followed by a decent night’s rest, would prepare me for the achy breaky pains of body stiffness I'd face in a few hours.

Feet checked, I discovered a small blister on one foot. Crap, can’t seem to avoid them. At least, it had appeared solo.

Mile marker achieved: 314.3

11.12.21 PCT/173 Junction to Silverwood Lake

My alarm sounded at 6:30AM, as I’d set it.

Yep, stiff as cardboard. I hobbled around the room as I collected my wits and gear, and made ready to leave.

Mark and I consumed a hardy breakfast in Crestline before we set off to leave my car at Pilot Rock Staging Area parking lot, which overlooks Silverwood Lake dam.

Then, in Mark’s SUV, we headed to the PCT junction with 173.

Been here, Prim8 said.

Yep, déjà vu, all over again.

At 9AM, day pack readied, I tanked up on water. "Got any ibuprofen, Mark?"

"Yeah," he said and offered me two tabs.

I should carry my own.

I took tentative down the trail, wondering, Why do I do this to myself?

Just gut it out.

Within a few minutes, however, with help from Mark’s hiker’s medical cabinet, I’d achieved a steady pace.

A cloudless sky and scarcity of trees left us exposed to full sun, though temperatures remained civil, hovering in the mid-70s in the brief spots of shade. Periodic slight breezes helped.

I reminded myself that today's hike would be shorter. We hiked on flatter terrain, with considerably less elevation gain and loss than the previous day, and we enjoyed open views of the small valley to our north, bounded by an escarpment beyond.

Looking westward from PCT between Mojave River Forks Reservoir and Silverwood Lake.

As the hours progressed, we speculated about our time of completion.

"We may be done by one," Mark said.

We continued our steady pace.

When we arrived at the trail junction, my car parked another a hundred yards up the paved road, "It’s 1:30PM," Mark said. "We’ve come 9.3 miles. That’s 2.2 miles an hour."

“Pretty good, considering,” I said. Considering my stiffness from yesterday.

"Wrong-way" got no quarrel from me.

For me, three mph, sustained only over short distances, is the best I can expect. One mph would be a snail's pace, and two mph I deem reasonable. "Anything over two mph is icing on the cake," I added.

After retrieving Mark’s vehicle, I changed into my tennies for my drive home. Not only had my foot-condition not worsened, though my feet were sore, I felt relieved that no additional blisters appeared, in spite of the one that I’d cultivated yesterday, which had burst.

Could’ve been worse!

I made it home, lickety-split, ahead of the most of stop-and-go traffic.

(Prim8’s accumulated PCT progress: mile marker 323.2.)

Another Dose of Torture (PCT)

Bottom Line: Even a pandemic can't keep a hiker "down."

11.3.20 -

COVID still raging in the US, Mark Reinhardt and I nevertheless had ants in our shorts, and since we both agreed to abide by the recommended precautions, our strong respective needs overcame any reservations to rendezvous at Whitewater Preserve, near Palm Springs.

On my COVID (corona vacation in-doors) breakout hike, I left my car at the graveled parking area at mile 211.6, mid-morning, under clear sky, headed north and “up canyon” on the PCT. I had hours to cover the six-to-seven-mile stretch before Mark would arrive at Whitewater Preserve. Besides, fingers crossed, I needed to test my bionic knee, implanted July 2019.

With mild elevation gain, slow and steady progress over the next few hours took me to the trail junction to Canyon View Loop.

Canyon Loop View Trail junction with PCT.

When I came to the proverbial fork in the road . . . I took it, veered right onto Canyon Loop View Trail and descended to the Whitewater Preserve entrance road.

By 4 PM, or so, I reached the road and stretched out where a tree shaded the road’s gentle-sloped gravel shoulder. There, I snoozed off and on while I waited for Mark to arrive on his way from work.

In preparation for our next day’s hike, we performed a vehicle shuffle, retrieved my car and left Mark's near the Preserve Headquarters, then proceeded to the Hacienda Mexican Restaurant in Big Bear for dinner . . . and draft beers.

11.4.20 -

Mark slept comfortably in a hotel room, I presumed, while I spent a miserable night in the back of my Toyota Camry.

By early morning, my ordeal had provided me sufficient motivation to get onto the trail, anything an improvement over remaining in my half-trunk-half-rear-seat bed.

Breakfast consumed at the Lumberjack Cafe in Big Bear, we traversed the “OHV,” Off Highway Vehicle, road to Mission Creek Trail Camp, PCT mile 239.9.

The morning air still chilly in the shade, we headed south and down-slope towards Whitewater Preserve. Tree cover soon disappeared, as charred remains of trees blanketed the surrounding area, and with no cloud cover, the air rapidly warmed.

Connard, with evidence of fire damage in the background .

Sparse green shrubs dotted the landscape as a sign of early regeneration.

Prim8 made himself known, Downhill good.

Agreed, Prim8, I responded.

When we stopped for a half-hour lunch break, Prim8 and I shared a cheese-chunk along with a slice of bread and salami, then dried fruit.

As the day wore on, and Mark hiked ahead of Prim8 and I, my questions and doubts arose, then increased as foot blisters made themselves known. My joints and muscles ached, as well.

I’d guessed we neared our destination, as the terrain flattened somewhat and the valley widened.

Though not that far ahead, I saw Mark stopped at a trail junction.

Referring to his map as I pulled alongside, he said, “We have another four-and-a-half-miles to go.”

“What?” I said. “How could that be?”

Ain’t so, Prim8 said.

“Yeah,” Mark said. “We head west from here. We’ll have hiked twenty-four-and-a-half miles today.”

We’d expected to be finished at this distance, about twenty miles. Though clearly, nowhere near running water, something was amiss and the map indicated the Whitewater lay two ridges to our west.

Crap. I’m knackered.

Prim8 whined, Quit.

Can’t do that, fella. Dusk is coming and we want to get out here without a major problem, though I wanted to sit for a long rest.

We’d never traversed this trail and getting lost in the dark wouldn’t help our situation!

“How ‘bout, I just wait here for you?” I said to Mark, understanding that absurdity.

Mark chuckled.

Without reasonable alternative, Prim8 and I followed Mark westward, while we fessed up to not studying the trail maps before our hike. I’d assumed the trail distance would be a simple matter of arithmetic, subtract point A from point B. So, much for that assumption.

Wearing a headlamp, I plodded forward on leaden feet, while blisters complained and calve muscles griped, and my progress slowed as the darkness overtook us.

“We probably should stay together at this point, Mark,” I yelled, utmost caution in mind.

He slowed his pace and I caught up.

We lost the PCT trial where it crossed the Whitewater River, instead, worked our way down the river bed. At least, the white noise of running water soothed me—at least, I wouldn’t die of thirst—and I didn’t need to fight off mosquitoes.

Prim8 and I stumbled over and around boulders, as I kept an eye on Mark’s head light, looking for signs of any problems he may encounter.

Just a little farther, I reminded Prim8. Just a little farther.

When Mark finally veered to the far bank of the river, we reached a well-trod path.

“Must be the PCT,” Mark said.

“Yeah,” I said, relieved that we on smoother, easier footing.

“I’ve been looking for the reflection off the signs,” he explained.

My distance countdown grew more earnest, ticking off the miles, then reduced to the quarter-miles, until we reached a trail junction sign, where I sat down.

Connard rests at the PCT-Whitewater Headquarters Trail junction.

“About a half-mile to go,” Mark said.

“Ugh,” I said, though relieved we knew what distance remained. Not knowing had gnawed at me. Usually does.

After my brief rest, I resumed my internal pep-talk countdown, as if I could teleport to Mark's car. Another hundred yards, Prim8. Crossing the river on a foot bridge, Prim8. Close now, Prim8. Mark's car in sight. One-hundred feet . . . twenty, ten, nine. . . .

Mark drove us back to my car at Mission Creek Trail Camp . . . while I recuperated.

“Spending the night in Big Bear?” I asked him.

“No, I’m heading straight back,” Mark said. “I need to work tomorrow.”

I took an unplanned circuitous route back to the hotel where Mark had spent the previous night and booked a room. I didn’t trust remaining awake on my drive home.

(Prim8's accumulated PCT progress: mile marker 239.9.)