|the mysterious whitewater area|
|Uphill, always uphill|
|Triscuit views the trail ahead|
|Mt, San Jacinto, still snowy|
Our goal: Cajon Pass, 132 miles away. Six days? Seven? Since we had started at three in the afternoon, we could only hope to reach Whitewater Preserve, an oasis in this parched landscape of cactus, creosote, and ceanothus. Trudging uphill, burdened by the entire food supply we had planned on taking (no resupply), we made it eight miles: a gurgling river and green grass, populated by a sea of thru hiker tents. Frogs in the desert, how was this possible?
|out of the oasis|
During the night, the Santa Ana winds rose to a crescendo. I lay awake as a gritty substance blew in through the exposed mesh of the tent. Sand--I was being buried alive in the sand! After a sleepless night and a morning of panic when I dropped a contact lens on the beach and, amazingly, found it--we marched on twenty more miles, to find a forest of pine trees.
The people were a hardy, friendly bunch, far different than last year. We came upon a hiker huddled in a crevice to escape the ceaseless wind. When asked for his trail name, he said sheepishly, "Spooner.", alluding to the fact that some girls had given it to him on another trail. Other hikers weren't as circumspect about prior hiking experience: one man found a way to insert the fact that he had "hiked the AT" twice in a two minute conversation. (He was also carrying a bear canister, hundreds of miles before it was required, claiming he might as well get used to it. Okay, Bear Can Boy.)
With our dedication to mileage, we outdistanced the hiker bubble we were in and reached a new one, with hikers who had started several weeks ago. At campsites the trail seemed crowded but during the day we mostly walked alone. Alone, but with the wind, a constant companion.
On Day 4, we hit a camping jackpot. It had been 21 miles of descent from the freezing pines into the swelter of the lowlands, and we knew we were coming into a restricted camping area. We had to stop somewhere, and we spied it, a small flat area near some boulders, with a view of trackless mountains. Nobody camped near us, not any of the people we had given our own trail names to and never saw again--the Australians (we had mistook their accents for Aussies), International Girl, Creeper, Tat--nobody was in sight. The wind even stopped breathing.
We were holding our own. Looking at the maps, it looked like an easy, though hot, cruise ahead. Little did we know things were about to get weird. Very, very weird...
To be continued...