#ca section e

For several years, the Rock Inn and almost dry Lake Hughes and Elizabeth Lake were thrust into PCT prominence when fire closed the trail from just north of San Francisquito Canyon Road to just south of Sawmill Campground.  During the extended closure the re-route involved a significant road walk through the unincorporated community of Lake Hughes and the the Rock Inn.

Built in 1929 by Joel Hurd after he migrated from Massachusetts to the Lake Hughes area, the Lake Hughes Trading Post (later called the Rock Inn) functioned as a bus station, store, hotel, and post office for this growing community of vacation cottages.  Constructed with rock quarried in the Lake Hughes area, the Inn is two stories tall with arched windows and doorways and a large stone fireplace.

In 1975, the property was purchased by Paul Koslo (1944-2019) who renovated the building, reinforcing the rock structure and remodeling the second floor into bed-and-breakfast rooms. Not many changes since that time. Koslo died of pancreatic cancer in January, 2019.  Koslo appeared in many movies and television shows (often as a villain).

I have stopped a couple of times for lunch while on the trail.  Once it came near the end of a couple of days of, believe it or not, rain walking south from Hiker Town and it could not have been a more welcome sight.  The other time, equally welcome, the weather was in the more typical hot phase with scorching sunshine and the cool, dark interior was such a pleasant refuge.

David Hough hiked the PCT in sections between 2001- 2013 and is about one third of the way through a second section-hike of the entire trail.  He just recently finished California’s Section E . . . an often maligned section that includes the California Aqueduct walk and can often be incredibly hot and dry.  But, if hikers hit it just right, the wildflower bloom can be spectacular.  As David said about his walk this year, “I was once again impressed by the wildflowers and green grass (and brush) and relatively abundant water, and during the week, nobody here except us PCT hikers.” 

Over the past month we have highlighted a number of the unique features of Section E -- the historic Rock Inn near Lake Hughes, the incomparable Casa de Luna, the site of the St. Francis Dam collapse, and, if you hit the section just right . . . the amazing display of flowers. Here are three of David’s photos (from top to bottom):  an amazing sunset from upper Bouquet Canyon, the trail south from Hiker Town toward the San Andreas Fault Zone and Libre Mountain, and a carpet of California poppies.

Indeed, every section of the PCT has its day.

We have featured a number of photos and stories recently from California’s Section E, which stretches from Agua Dulce to Tehachapi, connecting the southern Californian PCT with the Sierras. Although an arrangement has been negotiated with the Tejon Ranch to eventually move the PCT to a more scenic route through the massive holdings of the ranch, currently the PCT spends much of its time crossing an arm of the Mojave Desert.  This Section does include some of the most unique and notable PCT stops – the Rock Inn, Hiker Town, and Casa de Luna. And, as David Foscue reminds us, it is rich with history.

The long, dry, hot walk along the Los Angeles Aqueduct, which lies in this section, is a symbol of the complicated and controversial history around southern California’s most precious resource – water.  Names like Mulholland, Owens Valley, and Mono Lake are much more familiar than the St. Francis Dam and the Bouquet Canyon Reservoir.

By David Foscue

As you climb out of Bouquet Canyon, the Bouquet Canyon Reservoir comes into view to the west. Dammed by its clay-core earth based dam, which was completed in 1935, the reservoir provides valuable water to the Los Angeles basin.  This reservoir replaced a larger reservoir located one canyon to the north, the San Francisquito Canyon, created by a concrete dam known as St. Francis. It is a dam and reservoir that are no longer there.

When it was finished in 1926, St. Francis Dam retained a year’s supply of water for Los Angles. Only a puddle of this water came from the meager San Francisquito Creek, most came from the Owens Valley through the 225 mile long Los Angeles aqueduct system that had been recently constructed.  

A narrowing in the San Francisquito canyon seemed the ideal location for the dam.  What the engineers could not have known then was that the narrowing was caused by an ancient landslide. The eastern end of St. Francis Dam was anchored in unstable ground.  The dam was designed to be a maximum185 feet high but during construction it was raised twice, first to 195 then to 205 feet.  The base, however, was not thickened to accommodate the increased pressure.

The 38,000 acre-foot reservoir reached its full capacity of twelve-and-an-half billion gallons on March 5, 1928.  Today, such a huge reservoir would be a Pacific Crest Trail landmark, glistening to the west in the hills of the San Francisquito Valley.  But today the hiker can only imagine the reservoir

On March 12, 1928, just one week after the reservoir filled, the ill-fated St. Francis Dam burst and a huge wall of water cascaded down the valley, the wall was over 75 feet high by the time it reached the village of Castaic Junction ten miles below the failed dam.  The water was estimated to be 25 feet deep by the time it reached Santa Paula, 42 miles away.  After 54 miles, and five and a half hours of flow, the flood reached the Pacific Ocean.  Everything in that swath had been destroyed —- 1,200 homes were demolished, 10 bridges were washed out.

The exact toll in human lives will never be known — estimates fall between 450 and 500 deaths, making the collapse of the St. Francis Dam the greatest civil engineering disaster of the 20th century in America..  Many bodies were washed into the sea and never recovered.  In the 1970s the skeletons of two victims were found in a Model A emerging from its sandy tomb.  The most recent remains believed to be those of a dam victim were found in 1994.

Along the PCT you first encounter Joshua trees as you approach Big Bear from the south.  However, it is not until you leave Hikertown and cross the edge of the Mojave Desert that you see them in abundance.  By the time you reach Walker Pass, you will have seen Joshua trees for the last time on your walk north.

What are these plants that seem to have come right off the pages of a Dr. Suess children’s story?  They are Yucca brevifolia, members of the Agave family. The Joshua tree is also a monocot, in the subgroup of flowering plants that also includes grasses and orchids. 

Note the differences in a cross-section of a tree, like an oak or pine, and a Joshua tree.  An oak or pine tree has growth rings while the soft, cork-like bark of a Joshua tree trunk is composed of thousands of tiny fibers.

Joshua tree cross section

More traditional tree cross-section

Survival in the harsh environments home to the Joshua tree is against many odds. The Joshua tree’s life cycle begins with the rare germination of a seed, its survival dependent upon well-timed rains. Look for sprouts growing up from within the protective branches of a shrub. Young sprouts may grow quickly in the first five years, then slow down considerably thereafter. The tallest Joshua tree looms forty-nine feet high and as PCT hikers can attest, Joshua trees provide scant shade.

Joshua trees grow at rates of one-half inch to three inches per year. The average lifespan for a Joshua tree is estimated to be about 150 years. Spring rains may bring clusters of white-green flowers on long stalks at branch tips. Like all desert blooms, Joshua trees depend on just the perfect conditions: well-timed rains, and for the Joshua tree, a crisp winter freeze. Researchers believe that freezing temperatures may damage the growing end of a branch and stimulate flowering, followed by branching. You may notice some Joshua trees grow like straight stalks; these trees have never bloomed—which is why they are branchless! In addition to ideal weather, the pollination of flowers requires a visit from the pronuba or yucca moth. The moth collects pollen while laying her eggs inside the flower ovary. As seeds develop and mature, the eggs hatch into larvae, which feed on the seeds. The tree relies on the moth for pollination and the moth relies on the tree for a few seeds for her young—a happy symbiosis.  This story is retold in Mike Cipra and Caryn Davidson’s “Tales of Desert Symbiosis” which is included in The Pacific Crest Trailside Reader: California.

The Joshua tree is also capable of sprouting from roots and branches. Being able to reproduce vegetatively allows a much quicker recovery after damaging floods or fires, which may kill the main tree.

Years ago the Joshua tree was recognized by American Indians for its useful properties: tough leaves were worked into baskets and sandals, and flower buds and raw or roasted seeds made a healthy addition to the diet. By the mid-19th century, Mormon immigrants had made their way across the Colorado River. Legend has it that these pioneers named the tree after the biblical figure, Joshua, seeing the limbs of the tree as outstretched in supplication, guiding the travelers westward.  Personally, I suspect that these Morman immigrants were experiencing heatstroke or, after crossing the waterless Mojave, were so desperate for an encouraging sign that they were willing to engage in a little anthropomorphism.

On April 18, I posted a story by Jason Evans of some of the small world stories that occur on the PCT. Every walk on the trail seems to produce more small world stories.

Allen Swanson (”Hiking Solo”) was part of a small group of hikers that had camped near me and my hiking partner, Jim, in early April a day’s hike north of Agua Dulce. He and his colleagues had started very early in the hiking season and were already more than 450 miles north of the border.

Fast forward to July 30 and nearly 900 miles north.  I was walking another section and, along with my hiking partner, Howard, had camped at Cold Spring. As twilight approached, Allen and his companion, Rocky, rolled in and camped in the same area.  After some discussion, I realized that I had met Allen four months earlier . . . and remembered the story of a lost and found ‘buff’ (see the April 23rd entry).

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. 

I met ‘Happy Trails’ during my recent walk north to south along Area E. He is among the early long distance hikers and captured this shot of the lush growth of Claytonia perforliata under the oak canopy abundant in the Libre Mountain area.

Miner’s lettuce, the common name, refers to its use by California Gold Rush miners who ate it to get their vitamin C to prevent scurvy. It can be eaten as a leaf vegetable and is quite refreshing. I think it tastes similar to spinach.