#ca section d

As an exercise, Howard and I thought that we would reproduce our journals independently from our recent PCT hike on April 16th when we walked from Blue Ridge Campground up and over Mt. Baden-Powell to Little Jimmy Campground.  We walked together but recorded our experience separately the next day.  It was a very challenging day made difficult by low temperatures and high winds.

How do our perspectives on the day compare?  You be the judge . . .

Rees’ Journal Entry

Daylight brought no relief to our challenges.  Temperatures had continued to drop through the night and the winds had accelerated.  The wind penetrated our layers and made even walking different let alone packing up camp (I resorted to wearing socks over my gloves). As challenging as the cold and wind were, our most immediate concern was water.

Our plan was to see if we might be able to ask people stopped at Inspiration Point for any extra water.  If that proved to be fruitless we’d have to hitch to Wrightwood.  In the end, we benefitted from some trail magic . . . a small water cache just before the Inspiration Point pull out.  Thank god!

Three miles later found us at the base of Baden-Powell.  So different than when I walked this stretch with Taylor (I had walked this section with my nephew in 2009) . . . then a warm, windless day . . . now freezing days with extreme wind.  The climb hadn’t changed.  Still nearly 3,000 feet of endless switchbacks.

It is difficult to fully describe the intensity of the conditions. Water was freezing in our bladder tubes and the fierce wind was sucking any body heat from us and blasting clouds across the ridge tops layering trees and shrubs with ice. When exposed to the full force of the wind it was difficult to stand (one gust knocked Howard into the brush). One hiker reported that the Weather Advisory forecast gusts up to 80 mph . . . I don’t know if it was that severe but I cannot think of a comparable experience.

Perhaps I should have been more afraid.  We bypassed the final spur trail to the top of Baden-Powell because it was enveloped by cloud and the winds were their most severe along the ridge tops. The snowfield just below the peak proved to be no obstacle and, as long as we were staying on the north side of the ridges, we were somewhat protected from the worst of the winds.  For nearly 24 hours now the winds had sounded like the roar of a jet engine.

We were continually pelted with ice confetti or, as Howard characterized it, shredded coconut blowing off the trees.  And stopping for a rest was not really reasonable because of the risk of hypothermia.  So we pushed on knowing that we needed to get to Little Jimmy Campground, which would offer water and some protection.  I correctly remembered it as being located in a more protected hollow surrounded by mature trees.

We were the last to drag into Little Jimmy. Sheltered some from the wind but not from the cold. We set up camp and made dinner as quickly as possible because we needed to retreat to our sleeping bags and tent for warmth. 

Howard’s Journal Entry:

A cold and grueling day. We broke a windy camp and headed out a little before 7:00 AM. Arriving at Highway 2 we thought we might need to go find water in Wrightwood but much to our surprise there was a nice cache right there. This was a relief!

After a nice breakfast out of the wind, we started up the 20+ switchbacks to Baden Powell. The ups have been killing me  and this climb was pretty tough for me. The extra weight of water and gear and generally still getting my trail strength all contributing to my hobbled feeling.  It was cool, too cold, and the wind was increasing. After a longish two and a half to three hours I met back up with Rees who is so much better and faster on the inclines. I was thrilled to see him.  Near the top it was blowing clouds and howling. This convinced us both the top was not something either of us needed to do. We had anticipated the need for micro spikes/yak traks but as it turned out there was not really enough snow to be concerned about. However another layer of clothes would have been useful.

All I hoped for was not to go up any more. After a short crest ramble the trail lifted once again. The wind was blowing so hard that I actually got blown over. I have been buffeted by wind before but never blown to the ground. Fortunately a bush cushioned my crash landing. I was really feeling the incline, the cold, and the wind. I tried to capture it with some video (but reviewing that, it barely captures the experience).

All over the ground were shards of what looked like shaved coconut or flaky white fish. All ice crystals blown out of the pines along the ridge line.We would get on the lee side at times only to be on the top of the wind stream blowing up over the ridge. I have never seen anything quite like this.

By now I was feeling pretty ‘fried’. We decided to stop long enough to eat something but not too long as it was just too cold. Nevertheless, I appreciated the intake of some calories as the combination of the climb up and the cold conditions really had me ‘bonking’.

We carried on to find Little Jimmy campground and spring where we topped our water and made camp. We were the last to straggle in. We put together a hot dinner. Originally our plan was a cold one in the tent. Here at Little Jimmy the wind was a little less intense but still quite cold. This made a hot meal so much more appealing. After gobbling down some warm food we retreated to the tent around 7:30 PM. We have all of our clothes on in our sleeping bags and it is still cold*.  

*The next morning we learned the temperature had dropped to 18 degrees and that was more than confirmed by ice in our water bottles and frozen in our bladder tubes. BRRRRRRR!

Somehow the question came up recently about the etymology of Cajon Pass.  Several of the Spanish speakers in our group were dismissive of any possible association with ‘cajones’ and promoting the meaning of cajon as ‘box’.  But, why would it be known as ‘box’ pass? Here is what a little research revealed.

Modern day Cajon Pass from the air

As it turns out, it is indeed cajon as the Spanish word for ‘box’ that was used to describe boxlike canyons. The original name of Cajon Pass was el cajon que llaman Muscupiavit (the canyon that they call Muscupiavit), as it was referred to before 1806, Muscupiavit being an Indian rancheria, the name of which has been spelled in various ways. On November 24, 1819, Padre Nuez named it solemnly el Caxon de San Gabriel de Amuscopiabit, the name appears in the following decades with various spellings. The abbreviated form Cajon Pass, is used on Gibbes' map of 1852. The settlement of Cajon was laid out when the California Southern Railroad (Santa Fe) began operations through the pass in 1885, but a settlement of that name had already appeared on Williamson's map of 1853.

As backpackers know, Cajon Pass is the valley that separates the San Bernardino and San Gabriel mountain ranges, two significant chunks of the Southern California PCT (Section C and Section D). At one time these two ranges were one, formed by the San Andreas fault where two continental plates, the North American and the Pacific plates push against each other. As the years passed a low point eroded by water and helped along by additional faulting formed the valley between the two. It serves as a passage between the high Mojave Desert and the inland valleys and basin.

Certainly early on man found his way through the pass in one direction or another in his wanderings many thousands of years ago. The Indians, the Serrano in particular, knew the valley well and lived there for hundreds, maybe even thousands of years before the first European ever found his way into the area.

It may never be known, but possibly the first white man to enter the passageway between the two lands could have been a deserter from the Spanish Army. What is known is that Pedro Fages, who was destined to become the Governor of California, was the first to pass through in search of these men. Fages rode through the area coming from the south and soon after discovering and naming the San Bernardino Valley. He did not spend long in this place.

Padre Francisco Garces came soon after at the end of his 1775 crossing of the interior Mojave Desert. Some reports claim Garces crossed through one of the mountain passes to the east and others have him descending the pass into the Southern California area. Next was mountain man Jedediah Smith. As trade developed the route became known and more and more the Pass was used. The Indians became absorbed into the missions.

Maintaining a wagon road over the Pass was a difficult job. Eventually a toll road was constructed. The toll road, however became quite controversial and people found ways to bypass it. The railroad came through the pass in the 1880s. This was a faster more economical way of moving goods to and from the rapidly growing state of California.

Scott Gnile arrived at Hiker Heaven a couple of days ago on his way north.  I appreciate his observations about such things as the smells along the trail that you can’t capture in a photo or a journal or the silence that often accompanies walking. He also captures the conviviality that occurs at refuges along the way like Hiker Heaven.  It is a chance to catch up with other hikers, share stories and information, laugh, relax, and relish in being clean and indulged.

Scott maintains a blog http://www.gnarlyriver.com/p/pacific-crest-trail-2016.html about his walk.  He is walking, in part, to bring attention to ALS (’Lou Gehrig’s Disease), a disease slowly devastating his friend Shelly.  Yet she is living a gracious and open life thankful for every moment. “She is the most courageous person I have ever met,” comments Gnile. “I am inspired and moved by her resolve to focus on what she can do instead of living with the regrets for what she has lost. As of today there is no known cure for ALS. Shelly will never be able to hike the Pacific Crest Trail or experience the challenges and joys of this world-class hiking experience.” (See the web page Gnile created regarding Shelly, ALS, and his quest to make a difference: http://www.gnarlyriver.com/p/shellys-pct.htm

I hear rustling through my earplugs. It's loud, it's Sweep packing his stuff. I remove my earplugs. Everybody near me is moving. The sound of rustling nylon as stuff gets stuffed into stuff sacks and packs. It's dark. I rustle through my sack of stuff to find my iPhone, three thirty am! They're all getting up early to beat the heat on the next stretch to Hiker Heaven. Ok then, since I'm awake. Time to get up. I stuff my stuff too. I'm not hiking yet though. It's overcast and cool. It'll be cool all morning why hike in the dark if I don't have too?

Time for breakfast. The more I eat now the less I have to carry in my pack. I eat the last of my granola, my last instant breakfast, my last Starbucks caffe mocha Via, the last of my raisins, the last of my dehydrated tropical fruit. And for desset I cook chicken top ramen with freeze dried beef chunks.

I start hiking when it's light enough to see without a head lamp. I leave by myself. Walking through the dim light along the creek and out of the camp. The damp overcast makes it impossible to determine direction and I reach a fork in the trail without being able to tell which one to take. I use the compass app on my phone. North, north is the way I want to go, north to Canada. The weird thing is without the compass I was convinced I was facing south. I trust the compass and walk against my feelings, north. North and up. Up into the clouds. The clouds with huge monolithic rocks looming like giants in the gloom. The trail leads me under their feet and around and over the hills. Down then left, right, up. Zigging and zagging through the mist until I have no idea which direction I am heading except the trail leads somewhere, Canada I hope.

My knee feels essentially normal, until, oops, nope. It's not normal yet. Oww, the tinge of pain is more ephemeral, but it's real. Once it triggers every step hurts. I immediately slow down. Rats! I am hopeful the a zero tomorrow will heal this up. It's definitely better, but not enough to hike at the speed I want to hike.

One of the things that is hard to explain by writing is the smells of hiking. The smell of damp grass, sage. The blossoming wildflowers, the dank rotting wood under the trees. The dry dusty smell of the trail through this arid region. Technology provides a way to record things to see and hear, it would be cool of they invented a scent recorder. So I try to describe the smells, but understand my pictures are black and white stick figures of the rich range of scents that encompass a PCT through hike, not all are pleasant, but by far most of them are.

It's utterly silent. No, I mean utterly. No plane in the sky, no cars, no talking, no sound is wind, nothing. The fog completely seals me into a silent world of my own. The sound of the gravel crunching under my feet is quickly absorbed and muted. I see a different giant in the gray twilight before me, the trail passes beneath huge high tension electrical lines. They hum and crackle in the misty humidity, the sound of work being done at a distance. Power produced one place is doing stuff some place else. Here I am under the wires listening to the hum, sixty cycles per second. The cool mist blows softly onto my face. I think about the thru-hikers who chose to hike out of the KOA camp last night. They are camping in this. I wonder how many neglected to setup a tent and cowboy camped under the stars until they were obscured by the gray mist off the ocean. Wet stuff, cold and wet, sleeping bags, everything soaked. I pass some of them, no tent.

I think about all of the different hikes all happening at the exact same time. Everyone unique in its own way. Each reflective of the choices of each individual thru-hiker. ‘Hike your own hike’ is a common phrase in the thru-hiking world. It's an important concept. Encapsulated in it is the idea that bad things happen when you try to hike someone else's hike. If you hike too fast you could injure yourself, listen to bad advice and you can run out of water at the wrong time. You feel the consequences of each bad decision. As a wise person I know once said, ‘stupid should hurt.’ With thru-hikers it does, and rather quickly. It's a price you pay day after day as you face the consequences as a reminder, stupid really does hurt. Perhaps that's one of the things that I so love about thru-hiking. It's real, with real ups and downs, pains and ecstasies. This is living now!

My trail takes me through Vasquez Rocks park. Fascinating rock formations with rocks embedded in other rocks. The embedded rocks were already rocks when they were embedded. A sign of inconceivable time spans. Of the ancient times when those rocks were free agents.  All I know is that this place is special.

We walk right up to the coffee shop in Agua Dulce and sit down and order breakfast. It's somewhat surreal. One minute we are hard-core thru-hikers pounding trail in the wilderness. The next minute we are two dirty vagabonds discussing the quantity of sugar in our coffee. “Will that be one lump or two?” The coffee shop is filled with thru-hikers, most of the clients. I order pancakes, and bacon and eggs. I know I already had breakfast at the gazebo. Let's think of this as Sunday brunch. Whatever, it's good food. I immediately decide I'll be back tomorrow. We watch as a van pulls up and a bunch of thru-hikers without packs hop out. Some come to eat. Others walk into the grocery store across the street. We learn about the shuttle to Hiker Heaven. I finish my breakfast, pay my tab, and hop into the shuttle. On the glory road to (hiker) heaven!

Hiker Heaven was closed last year. It's open again this year, and from all appearances it has attracted a bumper crop of Thru-hikers. Tents sprouting from the dry dusty ground like giant fungi. Packs hanging from trellises like sides of beef. I learn that the hanging packs are to keep the five dogs that roam the place from eating your food. A mobile home with a kitchen and satellite tv just for hikers. And Internet igloo. A shipping igloo. The igloos are not made of snow, they're made of pvc pipe and tarp material. There are places to repair your equipment, order new equipment. Snacks and sodas can be had for a nominal sum. Thru-hikers are bringing cases of beer from the local store. It could be a loud night. We are given the orientation tour. Go there and get your towel and loaner clothes, go to the shower door and add your name to the bottom of the list. Setup your tent and change into the loaner clothes. Put your clothes and stuff you want washed in a laundry bag and put it at the end of the line of bags in the garage. Then relax, you're in heaven. The Saufleys are some of the most generous people on the planet. Providing all of this free of charge to any Thru-hiker that shows up. It's an amazing wonderful place. The one rule is, you can only stay two nights. 

I rest, relax, visit with friends old and new. I see people I haven't seen for weeks. Others that I just met. Here we are in this magical place. I take my shower, get a shuttle ride to the pizza place and stuff myself with pizza. I walk next door and buy a pint of Dreyer's Butterfinger ice cream. I eat it waiting for the shuttle back to Hiker Heaven.

I sit on the porch  and watch the animated conversations of people who share a common experience of incredible hardships, pain, and deprivation of a little over four hundred fifty miles of the PCT trail. There is no certain demographic or ethnicity that defines a thru-hiker. My Czech friends I haven't seen since Mt Laguna are here. Hatchet is here. My favorite Israelis too. Moses, a new friend, is here after escaping a kidnapping. It's way past hiker midnight and I doubt Sweep will be saying anything about it. He'd just be ignored anyway. For me, my waking hours are done. I start my zero day here in Hiker Heaven tomorrow. 

My first connection with Betty Wheeler was several years ago (see August 30, 2013 post) when she was part of a trail crew working in the Goat Rocks.  She documented the contributions of that group in that wonderful piece. 

This year she is thru-hiking the PCT.  On these days in mid-April she was headed for Baden-Powell . . . days that typifies early season in the San Gabriels.  You can follow her on her blog: https://bettywheeler.com/2016/05/24/days-26-29-detouring-around-snow-and-frogs-plus-a-return-of-the-monster-winds/

Day 26 (Apr. 19): The big question for today’s hike is how much snow/ice is on the PCT by Mount Baden-Powell – there is a lower alternate PCT route hikers can use when Baden-Powell has high snow – but on-trail info about snow conditions is usually sketchy and contradictory. So my big hope for the day is to get accurate info about the snow conditions.

Early in the day, I crossed a few stretches of trail covered with snow. I elected to stop to put on microspikes for a longer stretch with a fairly steep slope below the trail. How embarrassing would it be to slide down a mountain with microspikes in your pack instead of on your feet?

An important water source for today is something called Grassy Hollow Visitor Center, which is locked up tight, and I semi-freak our when I see signs on the Center that say the bathrooms are closed “due to a water outage” (and the adjacent water fountain is indeed shut off), but it turns out there is water from a spigot near a campsite, so I have water for the morning, even if it does turn more and more yellow as the hours go by… Once again, I trust in the 0.1 absolute micron Sawyer water filter to keep me safe from suspect water. Grassy Hollow does have one of my favorite kinds of signs, reporting the distance to Mexico and Canada. (see top photo)

This section of the PCT also includes a longstanding “Official Endangered Species Detour” to protect the highly-endangered Mountain Yellow-Legged Frog, “once the most abundant amphibian in the Sierra Nevada and Transverse Ranges of Southern California.” I’m happy to walk a detour for this species, and I hope the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service will finally develop the required recovery plan for this endemic species.

The morning includes a hike right next to the Mountain High ski resort, with its “Inferno Ridge” and “Conquest” ski runs.

Views are terrific as I hiked toward Baden-Powell

I had an enormous stroke of luck when I reached Vincent Gap, the point where you make the choice to continue upward to Mount Baden-Powell or take the High Desert Trail Alternate (the Manzanita Trail) to bypass Baden-Powell during high snows. Vincent Gap is on Hwy 2, and in addition to a small parking lot, it has a few “amenities” – an outhouse, trash cans, and a bench. On the bench sat a hiker drinking a Coke, and meeting him was my stroke of luck.

I walked over to the hiker and my first question was, “Where did you get that Coke?” I don’t even drink Cokes, but it was such a luxury item I had to ask. Thus, I met “Woody” (James C.), who sends himself Cokes in his resupply boxes, and was drinking one from his Wrightwood resupply. As it turns out, Woody had just summited Mount Baden-Powell, but beyond that point, he found it impossible to navigate the PCT because the trail was buried in snow, so he had hiked all the way back down to Vincent Gap and was going to take the lower trail. He reported that “Team Emerson” – a mother and her 9-year-old son – had also hiked back down, unable to continue past the summit. That was just the fresh intel I needed to make my own decision, so after I lightened my pack by putting my accumulated trash in the trash cans, Woody and I started hiking the alternate trail together.

Woody pinpointed where I was from just by hearing traces of a regional accent as I spoke, and unbelievably, we soon discovered we had been born in the same hospital and went to the same elementary and high schools. I was about 5 years older so we weren’t in the same classes, but his step-sister was in my class and a close friend of my sister’s.   So we hiked together reminiscing about childhood places and landmarks – Underwood BBQ, Furr’s Cafeteria, drive-in movies, bowling alleys, etc.

We camped together beside Holcomb Canyon Creek – after the limited water sources in recent days, it was a joy to camp beside a creek with abundant rushing water. The campsite had some strange items: a huge bedroll tied up in a decaying blue tarp, a rough-hewn bench made from branches, and other things that made us speculate about their source and possible illegal activities associated with them – but like many odd compounds you see in isolated areas near the trail, it is impossible to know the stories of most of these sightings.

Day 28 (April 21) at the conclusion of a 19-mile day, the winds have returned . . . monster winds, as Betty calls them.

Once I get to Mile 415, I find Rainbow, Sparks and Prince with their tents already set up, and a pretty big wind whipping around our exposed site. Prince thinks the wind will die down, and I set up my tent nearby. The views at dusk are stellar.

The moon is full, and for awhile, Prince sings and plays his ukelele, until he announces that his fingers are too cold to continue. He says he thinks the wind will die down, but in fact, it just increases in intensity during the night.Around midnight, Rainbow decides there will be no sleep in these winds, so he packs up his tent (no mean feat in the high winds) and night-hikes down the mountain.

At some point, Sparks’ tent collapses on him, and he doesn’t even try to set it back up. A guyline on Prince’s tent snaps, breaking a stake.I lie in my tent, with monster winds bending and flexing the poles that form a frame for my tent. I wonder how much wind it would take to take my tent aloft, with me an involuntary parasailer. My amazing 2-lb.LL Bean tent handles the monster winds with no problem – WOW! – though sleep can’t override my wide-eyed fear as I listen to the howling winds and watch the tent poles bend and flex, bend and flex. Once again, I find myself sending up a huge thanks to my LLBean friends who have provided me with the most critically important gear for my wildest moments on the trail.

By Manny Budinger

Manny posts the details of his thru-hike on www.notwaitingtolive.com

He talks about his motivation to walk the PCT like this, “Nearly four years removed from a college diploma, I found myself on the cusp of complacency. Months away from enough experience to qualify as a professional engineer, a predictable life was knocking. My job was fulfilling in many ways, but one year forward would closely resemble one year past.

Without the type of life responsibilities that require rock solid stability, the stage was set for an American adventure.

Young, capable, and free to pursue my own American Dream I decided to walk into a more deliberate life than I was living. Heading west to the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) for the summer of 2016 is the transition to that life. Leaving my job and home in Ohio for a one way road trip to San Diego and selling my car when I get there is the leap of faith that I will make what I want for myself.”

Bravo!  However, in defense of Manny’s previous life, it is not like he just discovered the deliberate life.  In 2011 he rode his bicycle 4,200 miles from Virginia to Oregon and on to Seattle. I intend to follow his journey north and periodically check in on his progress with a subsequent post or two.

I set my pack down, as I'll do a dozen times a day. Off the edge of the trail, lay the rocky floor, several thousand feet below. The slope was steep enough that no one would walk towards the bottom without a purpose.

And today, I had purpose.

Reaching for my camera case, I knocked my bag over sideways. My stuff sack, which lives at the the top of my bag, next to my camera case, rolled out...

My stuff sack has a pair of sweatpants, waterproof socks, underarmour shirt, among other things. This suff sack is critical for the cold weather which I'm currently experiencing (last night's low was 27 F).

This stuff sack gets a 10-foot jump on me down the slope towards the rocky bottom.

"No, no, no!"

I can't lose this bag. I've worn these sweatpants and extra pairs of socks along with all my outer layers many nights so far just to stay warm enough to sleep (my allegedly 20 degree quilt is a 40 degree quilt AT BEST).

I drop whatever was in my hands and bolt down this slope.

One hundred feet, that's as far as this stuff sack has to roll to be gone forever.

Sidestep sprinting, I'm gaining on the accelerating stuff sack.

My instinct after forty feet of slope was to try one last stitch effort, a feet first baseball slide.

But as I'm about to hit the dirt I get just close enough to grab the sack.

Disaster averted.

Walking back to my bag I felt accomplished; that could've seriously complicated matters, the next town was still 75 miles away.

Unfortunately there was a lost item on the day. Later down the trail I realized my fuel cannister was missing. Either the cannister rolled away, or in the excitement of the moment I left it behind.

Until Agua Dulce I'll be boiling water the old fashioned way.

What do “Austiin Powers: International Man of Mystery” (1997), “Blazing Saddles” (1974), “Hail, Ceasar!” (2016), “Holes” (2003), “Little Miss Sunshine” (2006), “Planet of the Apes” (2001), and more than 40 other movies have in common?  These films were all partially filmed in the Vasquez Rocks, just south of Agua Dulce.  In addition, over 100 television episodes, many music videos, and countless commercials have used these distinctive rock formations as a backdrop.

The PCT’s “Golden Spike”, completing the final leg of the trail, is embedded in concrete in Soledad Canyon not far south of Agua Dulce. The official ceremony was held in 1993, 25 years after Congress had authorized the traii. But, in truth, the PCT is not complete. Even today, more than 200 miles of the trail crosses private land relying on easements and cooperative land owners. Continuous efforts to purchase vulnerable stretches of trail and improve the trail routing are critical to the preservation and vitality of the PCT experience.

Perhaps one of the most enjoyable and amazing stories from the PCT. Although new romance is not unique to the PCT experience, marriage is . . . especially before the first month on the trail is over.  This is a much longer entry than usual, but well worth the read. Congratulations to Claire and Caleb, who are now known as the HoneySpooners on the trail.

You can follow Claire’s journal at https://trailtraveler.wordpress.com

“Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and hold fast to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh. This mystery is profound…”

-Ephesians 5: 31-32

Hikers say that a day on the trail is like a month in real life. What’s meant by this is that the connection you experience between people on the trail is so instant, so raw, so true, that after only hiking with a person for a few days, it feels as if you’ve known them for years. This was certainly the case for Big Spoon and I. For in a mere two weeks, from mile 235 (where Big Spoon caught up to me) to the KOA at mile 444, we spent our time on the trail together, showing each other our unmasked selves as we hiked through trying cold weather and tough uphill terrain. On this life altering stretch we asked each other the big questions about the meaning of life, our desires and hopes in life, and how they fit in with our beliefs about the Great Beyond. By mile 369, in the town of Wrightwood, Big Spoon and I knew intellectually, spiritually, and emotionally that we were meant to be together: we both knew and felt that God led us to each other, and though we had only known each other for a few weeks, we didn’t want to wait to seal the deal God had devised for us as husband and wife.

Thus, what you are about to read is the story of how Big Spoon and I got married on the trail. And it is a story to tell indeed, because once the ball got rolling to finalize our lifelong commitment to each other as husband and wife, the events that occurred as a result were nothing short of Divine Intervention.

It was the morning after Big Spoon and I stayed the night in Wrightwood, in the charming log cabin of Trail Angels Clayton and Jan. We were sitting in the living room as sunlight streamed in through the open windows. I was drinking coffee and signing the guest book for hikers when Big Spoon leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Let’s elope.”

I had already thought the same thing myself–about eloping with Big Spoon–and so didn’t pause to consider the proposal and answered confidently, “Yes, let’s.” 

The next several days on the trail we planned out the wedding logistics. On Thursday, May 21, the trail led us to the KOA in Acton. By this time, we knew what we needed in order to obtain a marriage license, but we weren’t sure how or when we would go about the actual ceremony. A mile before reaching the KOA, however, something told us to stop on the trail and research if any County Clerk offices were nearby. We breaked in a sandy gully that shielded us from the heavy wind and Big Spoon pulled out his phone. In mere minutes he found the Los Angeles County Clerk in the town of Lancaster–a 30 mile hitch from the KOA–where we could both obtain our marriage license and have the wedding ceremony, the divine kicker being that Friday was the only day the office performed any weddings.

It was a good thing we looked up the County Clerk office when we did, because at the KOA the cell phone reception was weak, and there was no internet connection. Thus, our next task was to figure out a ride to Lancaster for the next day, Friday. It was early afternoon and a cold, overcast day. Big Spoon and I convened in the KOA lobby where the phone number of a Trail Angel named Mary was posted on the wall.

“Let’s go outside and give her a call,” Big Spoon said to me.

We walked out to the gravel parking lot to make the call and who but Mary pulled in right as Big Spoon dialed her number. Mary was a wife, mother, artist, and joyous ball of energy who was there to pick up a fellow hiker. We talked to her as she waited for the hiker to come to her car and learned she was trail-angeling this season by driving hikers where they needed to go because she had never done it before and was fascinated by the thru-hiking culture, saying, “It’s just so cool to hear about you hikers’ motivation behind such a giant journey.”

So when Big Spoon and I told her we were getting married the next day and needed a ride to Lancaster in the morning, Mary jumped for joy, shouted in praise, hugged Big Spoon and I tightly, and said without hesitation, “I’ll be here tomorrow morning at seven o’clock sharp.”

Big Spoon and I called our parents next. We sat on a faded wooden fence near the parking lot and made the nerve wracking calls one parent at a time. We dialed my mom first. She was at work, and when I told her the news the first thing she said was, “I’m shocked.” I explained to her that Big Spoon and I would have a formal wedding ceremony back home in Chattanooga after we finished the trail in October, but that because we already knew in our hearts and minds we were meant to be married, we didn’t want to wait the four to five months before starting our lives together as one. This helped my mom come to terms with the gargantuan realization of her oldest child’s faraway wedding. By the end of the conversation she said, “Well, Sweetie, I guess I’m not surprised. Because remember I told you before you left this would happen, that you would find your husband on the PCT.”

Next we called my dad whose reaction was loving and level-headed. Dad said he understood that Big Spoon and I had finally found each other and that it made sense we wanted to be with each other in every way, especially while on the PCT–our journey of a lifetime. He said he believed God had His hand in this, and that he trusted my judgment. During this call, Big Spoon spoke to my dad and asked him if he could take my hand in marriage.

“Thank you so much for asking me, Caleb. That shows your quality and style,” my dad responded, and after confirming that Big Spoon would honor and cherish me as long as we both lived, my dad gave his blessing for Big Spoon to marry me.

The conversation with Big Spoon’s parents and grandmother was shorter than with my parents, but it was nevertheless full of joy, support, and beautiful love. Big Spoon told his family it had slapped him in the face that I was the one, and he didn’t want to prolong an engagement. His mother, Ave, welcomed me to their family and said in a lively voice, “I’ve always told Caleb the greatest joy I know is being able to share life with the one you love.” His father, Barry, who Big Spoon had previously described to me as a strong man of little words and always watchful of what was going on, said in a solid tone, “God bless.” And Big Spoon’s grandmother, Mary Elizabeth, wanted to make it very clear to us that we were not eloping, because if we were eloping we would be sneaking around behind everyone’s backs and not telling anyone about it. Oh no, we weren’t eloping, the grandmother declared. Big Spoon and I were getting married.

***

That night, amidst a field of thru-hikers  who were bundled in their tents, I sat with Big Spoon on the grass beneath the silver stars. Earlier in the day I had written him a letter on a piece of paper from my journal. In the letter I told him I knew we were getting married a lot quicker than most couples, but that I believed this was a marriage that would last like gold, and one in which I would be true to him and love him until death did us part. He read the letter while we sat side by side, and when he finished he took my hand and officially asked, “Claire, will you marry me?”

I answered yes.

***

We woke the next morning at sunrise. I readied myself in the KOA bathhouse with the help of Pandora who was coming with Big Spoon and I to Lancaster as our witness and Maid of Honor. Throughout my life, I never imagined I would look and dress the way I did that morning on my wedding day. I wore my white desert hiking shirt that was stained with dirt and sweat. My nose was sunburned and peeling, and my lower lip was split open and chapped. I had no make up to wear, and I did what I could with my tangly hair by tying it up in a bandana. The sports bra I wore was old; my tennis shoes were new; the bracelet on my wrist made of a braided purple rope was borrowed from Pandora, and the heart shaped earrings I had on were blue.

Pandora and I met Big Spoon in the parking lot at 7:00. He wore his Robbin’s egg blue hiking shirt that brought out the soft blue in his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” He asked me.

“So sure about this,” I said. “And you?”

“The same, Claire.”

Mary pulled in right on time, and as I put my backpack in the trunk of her car, she got out and presented me with a bouquet of bright pink roses. She had a rose for Pandora, too. They smelled heavenly sweet and completed my unique bridal ensemble. After the 30 minute drive to the County Clerk’s Office, Mary dropped the three of us off and said she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to pick us back up because she had to drive her 19-year-old daughter to film school in Hollywood. We thanked her for her wonderful help and told her not to worry, that, after the ceremony, we would figure something out.

  Trail Angel Mary on left

When Mary left, we had another 30 minutes before the office opened. It was a bright sunny day, the first in a while. Pandora–all smiles and exuberant with happy energy–took several pictures of Big Spoon and me as we waited to be let in. Once the doors opened, Big Spoon–a man of great action–stepped right in and began filling out our marriage license. I watched over his shoulder as he wrote my new name, Claire Henley Miller, and I didn’t feel nervous one bit.

It cost $131 for the combination of the marriage license and wedding ceremony. A beautiful black woman named Nichole with blue streaks in her hair and 6″ high heels checked us out then told us to wait by the door at the far end of the building. We moved our packs to the heavy door, and as we waited, Big Spoon, Pandora, and I huddled up and prayed to God to bless this marriage.

The next minute the door opened, and we were pleasantly surprised to be let into the small, simple chapel by Nichole who now wore a long black judge’s robe. I called my mom, put her on speaker, and set the phone on the podium where Nichole conducted the ceremony. Big Spoon and I took each others’ hands in front of Nichole. The day was May 22, 2015, exactly one month after we both began the PCT and met. The ceremony began with Pandora reading Ephesians 5: 22-33, where apostle Paul preached for wives to submit to their husbands, and for husbands to love their wives as Christ loved the church. Then Nichole recited the traditional marriage vows, and afterwards Big Spoon and I proclaimed, “I do.”

“Do you have rings to exchange?” Nichole then asked.

Because everything between us had happened so fast, we hadn’t had time to get each other rings. However, we did have tokens of our love and commitment to each other to use for now. Mine for Big Spoon was a rainbow colored rock I found several days ago near Silverwood Lake. It was the size and shape of a small spear head and had a crystallized quartz at the end.

“A solid rock to symbolize the solid marriage we’re entering into,” I said and handed Big Spoon the rock.

To my great surprise, Big Spoon then pulled out the herkimer diamond his mother had given him–the one that was in my dream the night Big Spoon caught up to me on the trail. In my dream, the diamond was fashioned so a chain could be strung through it to make it into a necklace. Therefore, in the chapel, my eyes widened in sheer amazement when I saw Big Spoon had turned the herkimer diamond into a necklace with thin black twine. I thought in deepest reverence, “Oh, my God! My dream has come true.”

         ***

The Divine Intervention continued after Nichole announced to Big Spoon, “You may kiss your bride.” It turned out Mary’s daughter had a stomach bug and decided to miss school that day. As a result, Mary was able to pick Pandora, Big Spoon, and me back up from the County Clerk’s office and said that, because it was our wedding day, she would drive us wherever we wanted and for however long.

By now, we were all starving; but daylight was burning and we had 10 miles to hike that day from the KOA to Augua Dulce. Thus, in concurrence with the non traditional day, we had Mary drive us through the fast food restaurant, Jack in the Box, for bacon double cheese burgers and curly fries. From there, we ran our re-supply errands: first to the bank to get cash out of the ATM, then to the grocery to restock our food, and lastly to the post office where I shipped home my tent.

We were back on the trail by 2:00, after saying a grand goodbye to Mary, the lovely Trail Angel who drove me to my wedding. I carried my roses on top of my pack for the stretch through the famous Vasquez Rocks–the immense flowing stone that rose above us like ocean waves. We made Augua Dulce by dinner time, the plan being to eat a celebratory dinner at the Mexican Restaurant Maria Bonita, then hike a couple of miles out of town to camp.

We walked into the busy restaurant with our backpacks on and were seated at a booth in the far corner. Pandora ordered a round of margaritas and said for Big Spoon and I to get whatever we wanted, that tonight’s meal was on her. We ate, drank, and were merry. Near the end of our meal the waiter came up with another round of margaritas that we hadn’t ordered.

“From that couple over there,” the waiter said and pointed to the generous middle-aged couple at the other end of the restaurant who were looking our way and waving. Big Spoon got up from the table to go thank them. When he returned, he said the couple named Doug and Candi saw us walk in with our packs and wanted to do something nice for us since they knew it couldn’t be easy doing what we were doing by hiking the PCT. Big Spoon told them that he and I had just gotten married, so the offering of the margaritas was special in more ways than one.

Doug and Candi stopped by our table on their way out of the restaurant to congratulate Big Spoon and me. They asked where we were staying for the night, and we told them our plans to camp a few miles down the trail. They looked at us like we were crazy because it was now dark outside. Regardless, they wished us well and went on. Not even a minute later the couple returned and said, “We have a motorhome outside our house with a back bedroom and pull-out couch in the front if you three would like to stay there. We would be more than happy to have you.”

Pandora, Big Spoon, and I looked at each other for a quick examination of everyone’s thoughts. The answer to Doug and Candi’s proposal was a resounding yes. “The only catch,” the couple said as we loaded into their pick up truck, “is that we have three peacocks that caw very loudly at night.”

Though it wasn’t your typical situation, I wouldn’t change a thing about my wedding day or night. The motorhome slept us beautifully, and the next morning Doug and Candi made the three of us a mouth watering bacon and egg breakfast, using the exceptionally fresh eggs their chickens had laid. We drank gourmet coffee at the dining room table and had fun answering the couples’ many questions about life on the trail.

After breakfast, we hugged Candi goodbye, and Doug drove us back to where we left off on the trail. It was a sunny Saturday, and I was a married woman now–married to man of terrific talent, intellect, and love. All was brilliantly well with my soul.

“You’re my wife,” Big Spoon said to me before we started walking.

“And you’re my husband,” I said to him back.