Desert Rats

I walked out of Warner Springs with Don and Lily, Don identifying birds in the stands of oak as we went across a valley floor. It was fine hiking, although I had by now acquired a blister underneath the pad of callous on the ball of my foot. My fellow hikers will know what I am talking about, and how crappy this is; it is a deep, deep blister, one that would require some home surgery to lance. I have no intention of draining it right now; I am just walking gingerly.
It has, in a happy turn of events, miraculously made the pain from my long-standing plantar fasciitis go away! This is, if it holds, a really big deal. I haven't been running for more than a year because of this injury, the result of overtraining, not stretching, and wearing those damned Blundstone boots for a week once while in Japan. My injury is actually not even usual fasciitis, apparently, but a nodule of scar tissue that has built up as a result of fasciitis. This scar tissue is never supposed to go away... But for right now, it's rays of pain have been eclipsed by the right shining beacon of a damned blister right in the spot I use to walk with.
My escort turned around after a couple miles and I pressed on and up into higher elevations, the grass surrendering mostly to brush and cacti again. The cholla cacti look so cool when backlit by the morning sun, their spines glowing bright yellow. It was another desert day during which water would dictate my plans. I had plenty, drank lots, and planned to pick up my maximum capacity when I reached a tank later that day.
I'll admit that while hiking in the desert every day is a real joy, the landscape at some point ceases to give you much stuff for building a narrative, if, say, you happen to be trying to impose one because, say, you have a blog. It's just a lot of pale sand, big skies, landscape wrinkled and the trail lovingly exploring every wrinkle. More Moby Dick, more Slim Jims, more water, also there's a big fucking rattlesnake in the trail, I wonder what podcast is next, OH SHIT THERE'S A RATTLER. Sucker was as fat around as a healthy kielbasa. I got to had to throw rocks at it for like ten minutes before it sidled away.

Yeah, y'know, life does not occur in a neat narrative, but rather is a bunch of routine punctuated by moments of terror and exhilaration. You go to the gym, to work, to the pub, to sleep, rinse wash repeat, until one day you get into a wreck, or you find out you are having a kid, or your best friend is diagnosed with cancer. I have always appreciated that the trail is the same; it has much the same balance of tedium and shock. OK, admittedly, there are more opportunities for randomness on the trail. But it sort of feels the same.

[Disclaimer for people who worry, among them my dear Mom: Rattle snakes are not the grand danger they are made out to be in westerns. They only strike in defense, give you lots of warning, and are actually pretty hard to rile up. I have often stepped over them; Lily stepped over one on her hike back to the car. And the bites aren't actually fatal, unless you are otherwise weakened.]

Chihuahua Valley Road cuts across the trail at mile 127 in the middle of some quite barren hills adjacent to Anza Borrego Desert Preserve. A guy named Mike Herrera lives a little ways down the road, or at least he has a house there. These days, he's known for having a big tank of water that hikers are welcome to use, plus a shady zone with country music and (judging by the napping dude and ample empty cans) sometimes lots of beer. I filled my tank, ate a snack, and remembered the first time I'd met Mike...
(Cue flashback dissolve)
Back in 2008, I was at the road crossing staring down at a sign. The sign depicted a person in a cougar suit chasing a woman in a cheerleader costume, and, unrelatedly, invited hikers to come down for the big epic Cinco de Mayo party that was happening. It was May 3. And totally silent. What the hell, I thought, and I went down to the house. There, I was greeted by three rather quiet, taciturn young Mexicans, who informed me that "Mike wasn't home," but that I was welcome to his scotch. It was like 95F in the shade, so the scotch wasn't really the perfect refresher, but somehow I managed to get it down. A couple other hikers were there too. The hosts were at pains to keep us there, imploring us to wait for Mike, who by dark was still not there. His scotch was also gone from the premises by now, but there was a lot of Mike's beer, and lots of hikers by now. I have seen lots of horror movies, so was pretty sure they were going to surround us and start the ritualistic killings any time now. Better have another beer and scout out escape routes. I remember having a passionate discussion about whether or not Jack Benny was gay. Was Mary just a beard?
And then, at like 1 am, this guy pulled up in his pickup towing a smoker behind him, hopped pout, lit a cigar, and declared that he was Mike. Having made his fortune manufacturing the millstones that Frito Lay uses to grind it's corn, he had purchased this home. He liked to party, and lo and behold, his new home happened to be right in the path of a herd of reasonably well-adjusted homeless people on their annual migration. It was, and probably still is, a match made in heaven.
(Back to the present)
There sure wasn't any party going on at that moment, so I packed up and split. I camped at the head of a gentle canyon. Just as night fell, another hiker from my start date, a Canadian woman named Killer, walked in. She's kind of the ur-Canadian is as much as she is unfailing nice and a great listener, etc, so it was cool to have some company.

Another day, another hunt for water. This time, it was at Tule Spring, a reliable standby of the southern PCT. There had been rumors that it had gone dry -- the drought is still real, people -- but other rumors that bit was flowing free and clear.
When I got there, I didn't find the spring, but instead found a guy named Tom stiocking a water cache. When I told him of the reports that the srpouing was running, he re[plied that "they can just get their sweet asses over here and see if it's running, 'cause it isn't." He was that kind of guy -- proud, profane desert dweller, member of the backcountry horsemen. He proceeded to tell me at some length that the stretch ahead of me was populated by pot farmers of Laotian and Hmong descent, and they were intimidating the locals. "I don't mind pot, but this, it's all cartel stuff," he said. That sounded... totally absurd. I mean, why not posit that Nigerian fur smugglers had set up shop? But he seemed to know what he was talking about.
And I took him at his word. There is a truth that most seasoned backcountry traveller know but do not frequently discuss: Anarchy is real, and it generally begins about 5 miles past the nearest trailhead. You never, ever see cops in the woods or desert. Normally, I love this. People are kind to each other, helpful, protective of one another -- anarchy is not just real, it also works just fine. My punk friends oughta buy packs.
But there is another side to it. Anyone who has spent time in Southern Humboldt county knows that wilderness and the drug trade combine to create a fertile breeding ground for violence. Just google "Humboldt County Murder Mountain." And as I rounded a corner and saw what was plainly a commercial indoor pot grow a mile away on the next ridge, I had to admit that Tom's story was probably more than mere nativist Fox News stuff. I saw another, then another, then another. Quonset huts, big broken-down trailer, shipping containers, and always the tank for diesel and the tank for water. There was one a half-mile away, then finally one just a 1/10 of a mile off the trail. A posted sign warned hikers not to ask the local "farmers" for water. The thought would never have crossed my mind!

totally bogus surf, brah

I hit one more cache, one I hadn't even known of that featured a surfboard, and descnded down to Hwy 74. I hit the highway, ate a burger and drank a beer, and proceeded to walk into Idyllwild to resupply. You cannot take the actual PCT here, as it remains closed following a forest fire in 2013. Pretty sure the fire's out, guys. Anyway, that closure is nothing compared to the one in front of me, which will mean I'll probably have to take a bus from the I-10 to Big Bear. Totally bogus indeed. 

Idyllwild is Idyllwild: I ate nachos, went to karaoke at the local bar with some other hikers. A local kid talked about stage presence and then performed the most admirably devoted headbanging I'd seen since '97. We watched a 50-something guy who had been drinking for seven hours pick up a woman way out of his league. She had been talking about her grief, her husband had died a mere six months ago. He was boorish, or at least seemed that way in his pickled state. The other hikers were kind of scandalized. 

"Forget it, guys" I told them. "It's Idyllwild."
Then I sang Merle Haggard, which cleared the room, and we went back to camp.