About Walking

I lost my battle with the wind last night. She began to stir around midnight, stretching her limbs and testing the reach of her long fingers, finding the limits of her reach. Then she began to blow. To howl, to rage, though none of those is fierce enough words to describe her strength.

She came roaring out of the desert and through the campground. Wailing, swirling, leaves and copper dust lifting into the cold night. Outside, away from cities and dulling walls, the wind is a different element. She sounds like the sea, stirred into a fury by deep and ancient currents, coming in waves. Rolling and crashing into you before ebbing out into silence, gathering strength and returning to pummel the shores of my camp.

My tent collapsed almost immediately, blew over onto me, a tangle of cuban fiber and hiking poles. I crawled out into the night and put it back up. For awhile it held, standing valiantly against the increasing strength of the winds, swaying and flapping. Fierce cracks as it tried to remain upright.

It fell a second time. Then a third. it's not a free standing tent, relying instead on stakes and tension to define it's shape. No tension and it's nothing more than a pool of waterproof fabric on the ground. Loose sandy soil, a lack of rocks and an unrelenting Santa Ana will topple that tent any day.

After the third fall, I gave up, emerged from my cocoon of fabric and spread my sleeping bag on top of the useless shelter. I burrowed deep into my bed, comfortable and warm.

I spent the morning repacking my bag and eating bacon and then head out to the trail with a slightly lighter pack and clean clothes. My Uncle Jim drives me South in the early afternoon. It is a beautiful day and if feels good to start walking North under the deep blue sky. The desert received some much needed rain last night and the hills seem greener, vibrant flowers in bloom. Huge white clouds drift across the sky and the temperature is perfect, warming the hills without being too hot. A breeze blows up the ridge line as I walk, carrying the scent of wild sage.

Crossing the Interstate, the PCT heads North and begins its climb into the Laguna Mountains, following Kitchen Creek as it trickles through the canyons below. When the wind dies, the sounds of the water take over.

I feel good. Strong and rested and at the end of the day, nothing is sore. Probably because I've only hiked a few miles.

If you look up there is a little button where you can ask me anything. Please do this. For real. Ask me questions about the route. About hiking. About my feelings. Even my chafing.

Well, maybe not my chafing. That shit is gross.

I slept in today, stubbornly staying curled up in my sleeping bag until the sun was glaring unrelentingly into my tent and making the air uncomfortably hot. Looking at the clock, I see it's only 7:30 AM and I am thrilled to be up so early. I have never been a morning person and ideally would like to sleep until mid-morning every day. I congratulate myself and then realize that getting up at 7:30 AM makes me the lazy camper. Everybody is already up, eating breakfast, drinking coffee or setting out for the trail.

Today is an easy day. I only have to hike six miles before noon. I pack up and head out. There is a climb out of the campsite and I decide to get it out of the way and then settle down for breakfast after a few miles. It's warm already and the sun slants in under my hat as I move up the hill. My pack doesn't feel as heavy today and the weight settles easily on my back.

In a dry creek bed a couple miles in I stop and make coffee and cheddar grits. It's cool and shady and I sit under an oak enjoying the quiet of the spot, the wind blowing through the woods, the sound of insects and birds. It's lovely to eat and rest.

The next four miles go easily, moving North through the valley toward Interstate 8. I reach Boulder Oaks and lay in the shade on a picnic table, drinking water and waiting for my Mom and my Aunt. They are picking me up for the evening and tomorrow we will go to the annual PCT Kick-Off.The plan is to get pedicures, which seems an absurd thing to do before setting off to hike. Then again, walking from Mexico to Canada also seems absurd.

It turns out that starting a blog is awkward as hell. It's like going on a blind date. I think it's best if we assume that we're old friends, that you know already know everything about me and that you understand why walking across the country is vitally important to me.

Before I left, my Mom asked me if I was excited. After months of planning, scheduling, packing boxes, re-packing boxes, researching the likelihood of mountain lion attacks, choosing gear, sending gear back, waiting for the Winter to pass and then the long drive South, I don't know what I feel.

When I finally arrive at the Mexican border, the sun just rising, brilliant and low in the sky, I still don't know how I feel. There are too many different emotions for excitement to win out. There is fear. There is grief. There is joy and wonder and excitement. There is a thrilling sensation, a whirlwind in my chest that feels like it will explode if I don't do something about it.

Which is lucky, because my task is to walk all day.

The Southern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail sits right on the Mexican border. There is a monument where we all pose for the same photo: grinning against the monument, high border fences in the background. I put on my pack which feels way too heavy, say goodby to my Aunt Holly and begin walking north.

The day is long and hot and very hard. The first twenty miles of the PCT are exposed and waterless, traversing a series of foothills and buttes. There are about 30 of us on the trail this morning and we leap-frog past each other throughout the day, stopping to rest in whatever patches of shade we can find. We walk atop the crests of the hills and down into oak filled dry creek beds. There are burn areas where the trees all seem like they've each staked out a solitary territory. The spring flowers are in bloom as are the century trees which are supposed to bloom once in a hundred years. It is beautiful country, greener than you'd think, but dry and dusty and harsh.

I push myself hard. The next water is at Lake Morena, twenty miles up the trail and I want to get there. Fresh water and probably some other hikers. It's too far to go on my first day, but I'm foolish and determined and in the late afternoon I start climbing Morena Butte, a huge granite hump in the landscape. There is a swift breeze and the evening light starts taking on that magic quality it gets in the hours before sunset. It is all so breathtaking and exhausting that I am overwhelmed. It's hard to believe that I'm actually here. That I'm doing it. That I'm walking North.