Slowly Making Headway (PCT)

Bottom Line: What goes up, always come down . . . usually in an undulating fashion.

Prim8 (Primate) points the way.

(Photo credit: Mark R.)

3/30/22 (Silverwood Lake to Power Lines) - Mark and I rendezvoused at the Cajon Junction McDonald's at 6AM, per plan, while the black of night and the cold temperature suggested winter, rather than spring.

Following the purchase of coffee and a breakfast snack, we drove to the terminus of our day’s hike, located several miles off the paved road, and parked my car under a power line tower at PCT mile marker 340.5. Then, we carpooled, down the ungraded rock cluttered and rutted road, continued over civilized roadway to our starting point at the Silverwood Lake day use parking area.

We’d start in pleasant cool temperatures, but with an unobstructed sun everything would warm soon enough.

“Feels pleasant at the moment, “ I told Mark.

* * *

The trail led us on a semi-navigation around Silverwood Lake, past Cleghorn Picnic Area, then under Hwy 138, all the while temperatures rose to the mid-70’s.

My legs and feet complained.

Fingers crossed, Prim8, that we don’t have a major problem coming on.

* * *

When we’d arrived at my car, PCT mile marker 340.5, “Not bad, “ Mark said, once he finished his calculations. “We hiked 2.4 mph, if we include our lunch break, and 2.7 mph without.”

“Yeah, pretty good,” I said. Fairly respectable, don’t ya think, Prim8?

Sore, Prim8 moaned.

Let’s hope it isn’t worse tomorrow, Prim8.

The elevation gains and losses along an undulating trail are nothing to laugh about. Though the differential elevations of our day’s start and finish amounted to 670 feet, we’d gained 987 feet at the highest point. Worse, the trail inevitably headed up, then down as it snaked through the mountains.

After a Mexican dinner in Phelan, I settled into my hotel room for the night at Cajon Junction and fell asleep with little difficulty.

(Our day’s distance? 17.8 miles.)

3/31/22 (Power Lines to 3N31 / Crossing I-15, southbound) - My phone alarm sounded all too early, as is always the case for me at 5:30AM.

Again, Mark and I rendezvoused at McDonald's for some light breakfast and coffee.

Let’s not make this a habit, I thought.

This time, however, my gear occupied my trunk, as we would relocate farther along the trail after today’s hike.

As today’s objective appeared more downhill going southward, than going northward, we opted to reverse our general hike direction.

I’m not a purest! Either direction will work for me, as long as I hike every mile. Even if I skip a section here or there, and hike them out of sequence.

We left my car at mile marker 340.5—same as yesterday—then drove Mark’s four-wheel drive SUV to our starting point at mile marker 356.2, a junction with an unpaved road, designated 3N31.

We started our hike at 7:40AM, my feet and legs recuperated from yesterday. Cool temperature with occasional breezes helped ward off an out-of-control sweat fest, and as well reduced my body’s demand for water.

All part of the plan, as a calculated risk, we carried less water—the bulk of weight in many a pack.

“Wrong-way” Mark poses at a water

cache at the Swarthout Canyon Road

junction. I counted seventy-one

one-gallon water jugs and most

were full. We required none,

however.

If large animal encounters in the wilderness are a hiker’s concern—lions, tigers and bears, oh my—maintaining a supply of water, a constant and underlying consideration, dominates all decisions.

For most of the day we hiked in the open, with only occasional shade from trees.

As yesterday, we maintained a respectable pace, though I admit I slowed on a number of the uphill portions, particularly as the day progressed.

Prim8 spies I-15 in the distance.

(Photo credit: Mark R.)

The trail descended towards the highway, though rather than taking a straight path and in keeping with the PCT trail route designers sense of humor, we crossed over one railroad track, then under another via a culvert. Who thought that up?

Prim8 reaches for mile-marker

420 on the culvert wall.

(Photo credit: Mark R.)

About noontime we passed under I-15 via another culvert, even wider and made of concrete. One serious drainage structure, indeed.

Wouldn’t want to face this after a serious rain, Prim8.

I tiptoed through what appeared to be a trickle of water, inches deep, as my eyes adjusted to the tunnel’s low-light conditions. I followed Mark’s route, angled towards and hugged one side, hoping an unseen hole with my name in it wasn’t lurking.

After existing the culvert, we

passed “the sign.” (Famous or

infamous? I can’t say.)

Mark and I parked our behinds on a nearby picnic table—how convenient!—on the eastern side of I-15 and just feet beyond said sign.

“Would you hike to McDonald’s from here?” Mark asked.

“No way, I’d hike there today,” I retorted. Who knows, if I’d been hiking the trail for a few days?

Yeah, milkshake, french fries, Prim8 said.

You’re just a glutton, Prim8.

As Mark and I munched our uncooked food, we watched traffic move along the highway and the trucks headed uphill as they queued at the weigh station.

Though we’d lose elevation overall on today’s section, we’d gained elevation here and there, but between I-15 and my car, we were on an uphill leg again.

Up, down, up, down. If that isn’t a PCT hiker’s motto, it’s their bane.

Why are we doing this, Prim8?

Not relishing the remaining elevation gain for the remainder of today’s stretch, but looking forward to my car’s softer seat, I felt ready, mostly, to push on when we’d eaten our fill.

* * *

At my car near 2:20PM, Mark reported, “We made good time, 2.2 mph, if we include our lunch break, and 2.7 mph, if we don’t.”

“Like yesterday,” I said. I’ll take it, Prim8. No questions asked.

Driving the ungraded rock-cluttered and rutted road to retrieve Mark’s seemed less of good idea as my car’s undercarriage scraped and banged against rocks.

Mark’s comments reflected his growing concern as we crawled up the road. Finally, he said,

“I’m concerned about this. Turn around here and I’ll walk the remaining distance to my car.”

“Are you sure?” I said.

Though willing to offer my car’s best effort, I wasn’t gonna argue Mark’s idea.

“Okay’” I said.

“Go on down. Wait for me at the road junction,” he said.

My drive down didn’t seem as bad as the drive up.

* * *

Once we’d rendezvoused again at the junction with Swarthout Canyon Road, we headed to Santa Clarita.

Mark had explained to me earlier, referring to the next 60-odd mile northbound stretch, “Accessibility to the next sections of trail looks problematic and we’ll encounter snow.”

Colder, slower, more gear. “Whatever we miss now we can fill in later after the snow melts,” I said in agreement. No need to torture ourselves, Prim8.

Who was I kidding? My legs, feet and knee were getting tortured . . . and plenty, snow or no snow.

* * *

We checked into our hotel rooms in Santa Clarita, showered, jaywalked the street for dinner, then prepared for another early hike start tomorrow.

I mulled over my gear options. What to carry? Do I need my larger, expedition pack? Or can I stuff everything into my day pack? Would tying my sleeping bag to the top of my day pack work well enough?

Planning for an overnighter on the trail, with a hike distance of 27 miles between our vehicles, we both wanted to haul as little weight as possible. No way I’d hike that distance without a significant rest stop.

I opted to use my day pack, go bivy style, as the weather predicted no rain. I stuffed my pack with a thin ground cover, an inflatable sleeping pad, and tent fly to keep dew off my sleeping bag—just in case—as well as a long-sleeved wool shirt, a thin rain jacket and dried food. Then, I added about one-and-a-half gallons of water.

Jeez Louise, water is heavy!

Finally, I tied my lightest, and newest high-tech, sleeping bag onto the pack using a bit of cord Mark had given me. Needless to say, most of the weight of my load consisted of water. No stove, no tent, only the barest of essentials, bearing in mind elevation, likely nighttime temperatures and an absence of precipitation in the weather report.

4/1/22 (Into the Wilderness: Mill Creek Summit to Messenger Flats Campground) - Up before the sun, again, we consumed a hardy meal at a Denny’s before our wilderness overnight experience.

Last meal for a condemned man? I wondered.

My car parked at Indian Canyon Trailhead, Mark drove us to the Mill Creek Summit Fire Station at PCT mile marker 418.6, where the paved road, N3, crests a pass on its southbound way towards Greater Los Angeles.

Though quickly tired by the immediate, and generally sustained, ascent of nine hundred feet, I hiked along at a decent pace—I thought—while Mark left me in the proverbial dust.

No surprise, my feet and legs complained from the start. Wouldn’t let up.

What do I need to do, Prim8? At least my feet haven’t started a blister convention.

I slowed my pace here and there to catch my breath and allow my bones a short rest, while Mark forged ahead without problem.

Trees, downed by strong winds, no doubt, blocked the trail occasionally, and provided me opportunity to catch my breath while Mark cleared selected branches.

A grand vista with a reminder

of past conflagrations.

Cresting a hill or arriving at a pass is cause for many a hiker to celebrate. Well, me for sure. Every hiker understands the joy of a change of pace, where the trail’s grade changes, sometimes upward, sometimes downward, sometimes leveling. Whatever provides a change of the stresses and demands on muscles and joints can bring some relief, if only temporary.

Yay, we’re almost there, Prim8.

When I caught up to Mark at the pass, our day's highpoint, where he’d paused for a rest break—and allowed me to catch up, I suspected—“I think that’s Messenger Flat Campground down there,” he said.

“Yep,” I said, “has to be.” I hoped so, anyway.

Switchbacks down the 45-degree slope for about a half-mile led to a dirt road which, within a short distance, passed a telltale area, flat with scattered tall trees and clear of brush.

“Looks like there are buildings down there,” Mark said.

I pulled a long stare, scanning for signs of life, though seeing none, said, “I think you’re right.”

* * *

I coasted downhill—felt like I did, anyway—along the switchbacks, though I remained acutely aware that select parts of my body took issue with my hiking.

Got to? Prim8 asked.

Suck it up, fella. No choice, I replied.

Mark and I had the campground to ourselves when we arrived at 2:30PM, PCT mile marker 430.4.

Presently, several issues arose. What to do about a possible bear visitation in the night? Where should we locate our bivy bags?

After surveying the area, I elected to bivy next to a fallen tree. “That tree will help keep the wind off,” I explained to Mark.

He placed his sleeping gear near mine. “I’m going to leave my pack and food in the outhouse,” he said.

“Hmm, good idea,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of that. No way a bear could get in there. Bears aren’t stupid. They manage to break into cars when they spy food through a window.”

Dinnertime came early, our feast consisted of uncooked foods. Mark primarily chowed on meat sticks of various flavors, while I polished off my lunch leftovers of a hunk of cheese, salami slices and piece of bread.

“I think I deserve some dessert,” I told Mark, and sucked the contents from a vanilla-bean flavored GU Energy Gel packet.

When I hung my pack next to Mark’s on a convenient hook inside the toilet stall. That door will keep ‘em out, Prim8. I doubt there’s a bear around who can turn a doorknob.

Other hikers began to arrive as if in a drawn-out queue. By dusk six northbound thru-hikers had swelled the campground occupation to eight.

Mark and I socialized with two hikers from Europe, and exchanged tidbits of information about the trail condition, both ahead and behind. They were pushing hard and several days earlier had hiked through the snow conditions that Mark and I had so easily by-passed by car.

Better you than me. I knew the advantages and relative ease of day hiking will disappear somewhere up the trail, when I’ll pound ground and face overnight camping for more than one night at a stretch. And Mark and I, knowing we needed to prepare, we’re using this overnight hike as a learning opportunity to provide us answers to logistical issues we’ll face.

One of the two European hikers had run out of food, while the other’s supply neared its end.

Not a good thing, Prim8.

Though they indicated they would resupply in Acton tomorrow, Mark and I contributed some of our dried food to the needier of the two.

No reason not to do so. What goes around, comes around, I reasoned.

At a respectable time, I tucked into my sleeping bag with two Ibuprofen on board, hoping they would alleviate the aches and pains in my lower extremities, particularly my knee. My feet felt reasonably good. Apparently, my latest gear selection had helped prevent a major outbreak of blisters.

At least some things were going my way, though for a hiker there’s always tomorrow’s challenges.

4/2/22 (Return to Civilization: Messenger Flats Campground to Indian Canyon Trailhead) - Snug and comfortable at first, I hoped for sweet dreams in the wilderness. The sounds of the breezes, as well as humans in the campground, quieted.

Aroused by the unmistakable arrival of a vehicle, followed by opening and closing doors, I wondered what would come next.

Great! A noisy, rowdy, unsympathetic group, unappreciative of a hiker’s day’s toil, gonna keep me awake?

Silence returned shortly after, however, and yet, I could hardly return to sleep.

Crap, why are my feet cold? I’ve got my socks on.

Worse, I verged on shakes and shivers. Verged, I say, not shaking or shivering, but wondering when that might start. Well, one question answered. Clearly, my bivy configuration won’t cut it when temperatures drop below the 40’s.

Regardless, I laid there, if for no other reason to rest as much as possible, while I pondered how to warm my feet. Wiggling my feet occasionally didn’t work. Not one iota.

* * *

“Connard, time to get up,” Mark said.

“Okay,” I responded. May as well, Prim8. Won’t get warmer laying here.

In the dark, and knowing it would take a few minutes to warm up with activity, I considered that preferable to feeling chilled with inaction. Besides, we had miles to go before we slept again.

The through-hikes gone,I spotted two vehicles the parking area, while a tent stood nearby.

Pleased that I’d re-stuffed my day pack with gear in short order, I listened as Mark chatted with weekend campers who’d soon have the area to themselves.

Chat-fest over, Mark pulled out his supply of pain meds. “Want an Ibuprofen? Or two?” he said to me.

“Just one,” I said. “Might help take the edge off, but I don’t want to over do it.”

We walked away from the campground about 6:15AM.

Crud, my knee’s already complaining, Prim8. Hope this isn’t going to be a major problem for my future hiking.

The weather continued to be mild, as predicted. Though the sun glared steadily in a cloudless sky, periodic breezes and tall trees on the north-slope sections of the trail helped me remain cooler, and reduced my need for water.

But the trail didn’t relent. Up, down, up, down.

More than once I cursed those who’d laid out the trail route. Some perverse since of humor . . . or sadism?

The views helped compensate for my misery as I trudged along, Mark usually some distance ahead.

Sunrise over Soledad Canyon.

As is the case, the trail moves on to other terrain, with the scenery of a different ecosystem, confronting the hiker with different challenges.

Looking towards the Vasqeuz

Rocks formation, as best I could

tell, the scenery appeared bleak.

Not infrequently, I cajoled myself. Around the next bend, Prim8 . . . over this next rise . . . the next patch of shade . . . pause to take a photo . . . time for a swallow of water. . . . The need to motivate myself remained never-ending.

Slow means success, Prim8. At least, I hoped it did. And I tracked my water consumption, knowing I lightened my load with each swallow, at the same time calculating the distance to the creature comforts, and water, awaiting at my car. You know, creature comforts like conforming yourself to a plush seat with the backrest reclined and legs outstretched, while blasted by a copious breeze.

Mark paused at a trail, dirt road junction.

I spotted my car, some half-mile distance down the road and perhaps a thousand feet lower in elevation, even before Mark pointed it out.

“See your car down there?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, relieved.

“I think we need to follow the trail from here,” he said, “rather than take the road.”

“I wouldn’t want to take the road and find out the trail ended up there anyway,” I said.

Down now, Prim8 insisted.

No way, Prim8.

I hated to continue along the trail, lose sight of my car, and contour around the mountain. But, bound and determined, I wasn’t gonna cheat. I don’t want to reclimb this hill later, Prim8.

Plodding along, I knew, or trusted so, each step brought me closer to my car, though Prim8 protested, Wrong way, wrong way.

Just a little farther, Prim8!

When I rounded the mountain, where the trail runs nearly vertically above the paved road, I sighed with relief.

Almost there, Prim8. Let’s not fall off the mountain, though.

A few additional belabored steps and I reached my car at PCT mile marker 444.1.

We’d done it, one step at a time! Our overnight trek amounted to 25.5 more miles.

(Prim8’s accumulated PCT progress: 381.7 miles.)

Walk in beauty.

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.)

Walk in beauty.

A Blistering Pace (PCT)

Bottom Line: Some boots aren’t made for walkin’, apparently . . . at least on my feet.

6/22/21 - My feet taped to minimize blisters—hopefully, avoid them altogether—Mark and I enjoyed a cooked breakfast, then dropped my car at marker 266.1, junction with Hwy 18, in anticipation of our day’s hike.

Been here, Prim8 said.

Last time . . . I hope, Prim8.

In Mark’s car, we arrived at the PCT junction with Polique Canyon Road.

“What time is it?” I checked my iPhone. “8:30 AM, not bad,” I said.

Cool morning temperature and an overcast sky bode well.

I hoped to avoid the sweat-fest of our previous hikes. Though trail elevation exceeded 6,000 feet, direct sun this time of year would generate sweat like a squeezed orange dripping juice.

The southbound PCT headed “eastward” from our location, though shifted direction as we moved along.

We came to a trail junction, observed a lake in the distance directly ahead, though only slowed momentarily before we turned onto the right fork.

“Which lake is that? What direction?” I asked.

Within a few feet, Mark halted and referred to his map. “That could be Big Bear Lake,” he said.

“Can’t be,” I said. Could be. “Is there another lake north of the trail here?”

“No, that’s got to be Big Bear Lake,” Mark said. “I think we’re going the wrong way.”

How could that be? “We headed east from your car,” I said. “Logic dictates north lies to the left and south to the right. Though without opportunity to see shadows, it’s difficult to tell direction.”

Of course, we’d carried compasses.

Mark indicated with his hand. “Compass direction shows north that way.”

“How did we get turned around?” I said. “We haven’t deviated from the trail.”

“I don’t know, but let’s backtrack to my car,” Mark said.

With that, we retraced our steps over the 1.2 miles to Mark’s vehicle.

After a thorough examination of Mark’s maps and GPS device . . . and our compasses, we concluded we’d been heading the correct direction. But, still. . . .

Once again at the trail junction, 2.4 miles later, “There’s the problem,” I said. “We should’ve read the PCT sign over there,” I pointed left, “not the post-it note there,” I pointed right.

And so, this time, we made a hard left, the trail almost doubling back onto itself.

“Now we’re on the right track,” Mark said.

“Simple mistake, easy to make,” I said, though surprised we both had made it.

The temperature remained comfortable, the sun obscured by overcast and our hike proceeded without problem, though I noticed increasing complaints from my feet, particularly heels.

More blisters?

The aches, pains, complaints from my feet eased when we paused for a thirty-minute lunch break in the shade of several conifers. The sun at full strength now, we noted our thermometers read 83 degrees.

“Doesn’t feel that hot to me,” I told Mark, though I anticipated the heat of full sun and accompanying sweat. I removed my boots and socks. “Yep, blisters. I knew it.” Nothing to do but soldier on.

Mark said, “There a chance of a thunderstorm with lightening tomorrow.”

Ugh. “Maybe, we’ll get lucky and outrun it,” I said. I flashed on my summit of Gannett Peak in Wyoming with Dr. Bobo, when he and I had piled our gear some thirty feet away before we hunkered out of the wind, after Bob had warned, “Yeah, you don’t want any metal on you with lightening nearby.”

We continued onward, me counting down the distance, wiping sweat, feeling the burn of foot-blisters.

By the time we’d arrived at my car, we’d decided to pre-position it at mile marker 292.2, leaving it overnight in order to save time the next morning . . . though we were yet to know if the OHV route there was passable.

Turned out, it was . . . and we did.

At the hotel in Big Bear, I hit the shower, didn’t remove tape, preferred not to look at my feet. Knew I’d have to examine them afterwards, though.

Yep. A large blister on my right heel. What will I need to do to prevent this?

I discarded those pieces of tape beyond salvage, then applied additional layers everywhere.

6/23/21 - 6 AM, bright and early, with drive-through coffee and breakfast Mc-sandwich from the Big Bear McDonald’s consumed en-route, we returned to the Polique Canyon Road parking turnout at PCT junction, mile marker 278.6.

Overcast, occasional slight breezes and a cool temperature bode well. The overcast sky appeared subdued.

“That’s see if we can outrun that thunderstorm,” I said.

Mark requested a photo by a tree at the road junction.

Me, one, too, Prim8 demanded.

Okay, but we need to get moving.

Prim8 hugs a tree.

We marched off at a fast clip.

Foot check. Okay.

Clouds in the distance behind us appeared dark, so we kept a steady pace, hoping to escape a downpour, though each of us carried gear to avoid a soaking.

As we marched along my foot complaints mounted, demanded more of my focus.

Damn, blisters. What the hell do I have to do?

All in, however, I harbored no intention of turning back.

Brief stops for a photo, or a wee break, here and there, slowed our progress only slightly. And, as has been the case while we have hiked, we swapped personal tidbits. Mark joked about and divulged the nickname of “Wrong-way” that he’d gotten on a field survey job.

"Wrong-way" Mark poses as

storm clouds roil above.

The wind increased, with short gusts to 80 mph, my best guess, and the clouds roiled and darkened as we progressed across a plateau strewn with boulders. Periodic checks suggested we could be enveloped by a storm any minute.

The sounds of scattered rain drops bolstered my resolve and though they soon stopped, I didn’t slacken my pace.

My foot-complaints increased in intensity, and as I limped along, I counted down the remaining distance to my car.

It’s out there somewhere, Prim8 . . . unless somebody stole it, cross your fingers.

Another hundred yards . . . around this bend . . . somewhere beyond those green trees . . . the stream is nearby.

I sighed with relief when I crossed a flowing stream. We’re close, Prim8.

And then I spotted “Wrong-way,” as well as my car, waiting at the PCT junction with Crab Flats Road, mile marker 292.2.

My feet gave thanks, even though I drove Mark to his car.

We discussed our respective drives back home and tentative plans for our next PCT trip.

“I’m taking 138 to Pearblossom,” I told Mark, “and I’m not missing that turn, again.” Come hell or high water.

Rain began to pour, when I found the Hwy 138 turn off.

Escaped the storm by the hair of our chinny-chin-chins, Prim8. But, I've got to figure how to prevent blisters.

(Prim8’s accumulated PCT progress: mile marker 292.2.)

Walk in beauty.