Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76

by Mary E Davison

  Each year the group of hikers heading up the trail had their picture taken and even section hikers were allowed. I was in that picture. Amazing. The Kickoff was like a two-day camping slumber party complete with interesting entertainment, useful information and a few hundred of your closest friends you had never met.

  Eric Ryback showed his slides, the first to hike the PCT before it was a whole trail, walking from Canada to Mexico as an 18-year-old with only USGS maps and 5 food drops. Incredible. I also met Teddy, the first woman to thru-hike the PCT, SOBO (southbound) and solo in 1976, three years after the current guidebook was published.

  I met Billy Goat, Tailwinds, Blue Butterfly, the Pearl Girls, Wheeew, Squatch, Free and EZgoing, Mendo Rider and a few hundred more people whose names I can no longer remember.

  I also rested the knee for two whole days.

  Fire and Angels

  Following the Kickoff, Liz took me back to Warner Springs for a very small hike around the town and one more night in a bed. Three more days on the trail, and I was in Idlewild, diverted there by a fire with other NOBO (northbound) hikers. Fire had changed everyone’s plans, and there was a scramble for lodging, but the confusion and delay was a benefit for me, allowing me to catch up with hikers I now knew as we all tried to figure out our next steps.

  Papa Bear, whom I’d met in 2007 in the Sierra, was there with a car. He shuttled hikers to trailheads, and I re-planned my trip with his guidebook. Thru hikers like Jellybean were road walking around the fire so as to keep continuous footsteps from Mexico to Canada. As a section hiker, that wasn’t important for me to do. The skipped section could be another year’s hike. I now planned to continue farther north but still come out at a trailhead to catch my plane home at the right time. Even though I like to plan things in advance, the fire required flexibility. No one plans forest fires. Papa Bear took Sly and me to Cabezon and Interstate 10 to continue north.

  I left Cabezon carrying six day’s food, but detoured on the first night at a sign that promised free eats for hikers. Long distance hikers very rarely turn down free food. Four more days and I came to Big Bear. They were long days with considerable elevation gains and losses and I fell in a shallow part of the White River. I also passed another hiker.

  My problem knee did amazingly well, but I decided to take the first exit to Big Bear as I painfully limped to the road. A zero day was in order. That night I shared a room with Jelly Bean, who had walked around the burn and caught up with me.

  The weather varied after Kickoff, from extremely hot days when I felt like a dead daisy—to sometimes freezing nights. The PCT’s meandering route through Southern California went over mountain ranges and drops down into desert valleys, then up another mountain range and down to another desert valley. Repeat and repeat.

  Partly because of the recurring significant changes in elevation, California has at least 16 plant communities described in the guidebooks. The multiplicity of flowers was astonishing. Canterbury Bells became my new favorite. I took pictures of each new flower I saw, and I probably saw a dozen that were new to me each day.

  I loved the profusion of flowers, spending hours the next winter looking up their names. Sadly, many are still labeled by color in my photos as I couldn’t find them in books or online. It has always surprised me how few hikers wanted to know the names of the flowers they passed along the trail. I always wanted to meet them by name, though not necessarily a scientific name. Their common nicknames were easier to remember.

  When I reached Big Bear, I called Nitro. Yes, that Nitro. The one I’d met on my first hike on the AT. It is a continual joy to meet people from trails walked in preceding years. Nitro lived nearby and loved to play trail angel to hikers. She’d also been at the Kickoff and had given me her number.

  Because of Nitro, I also now knew there was such a thing as the Continental Divide Trail and the Triple Crown. Ever since the AT, I’d followed her trail journal online, and Nitro had walked all three trails in the years I’d read her posts. I still had no idea I would walk all three trails. In 2008 I was just hoping to walk on the PCT until the time for my airline ticket home. I was fortunate to be able to walk anywhere. Nitro, at least 40-50 years my junior, was a super trail angel. She said to call if my knee got worse.

  The trail community spans age ranges of people drawn together by the trail. Other hikers I met around Big Bear included Forager, Irish, Tahoe Mike, Brit, Moonshine and Rosemary, Captain Teacup, Dogwood and Grins, to whom I gave his trail name for his wide, happy grin every time I saw him. The trail community was one grand happy, somewhat sore and blistered, parade of hikers of all ages and backgrounds.

  After my slackpack from Van Duzen Road south to Highway 18, I needed to hitch back to Big Bear. I hailed a very quick hitch from the first car to pass, driven by a Hispanic man with his daughter. They knew nothing about the trail. But they stopped and rearranged many boxes in their small VW to make room for me.

  As I thanked him profusely, he told me the Bible said he should help strangers as they may be angels. (“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares” Hebrews 13:2.) He didn’t know I was a pastor or a Christian or would actually know that Biblical reference. I explained that hikers called people like him angels. He was a trail angel.

  My knee gave me a lot of trouble on that slack pack, and I wondered if I’d gone as far as I could for the year. Should I get off trail? Should I go home even if it meant buying another airline ticket? But by the end of the day, the knee felt better again. Go figure. I, ever the eternal optimist, could envision quitting if I was hurting.

  I couldn’t envision quitting if the knee didn’t hurt. Since it felt better by the end of the day, I went on, although I readjusted my plan once again to give myself more time. I’d been pushing too hard for the knee; I planned seven days to reach Cajon Pass.

  The following day I walked through a burn area. Mandatory walking through burn areas might make all people be more careful with fire in the woods. Yes, there were flowers and grasses coming and some new growth at the base of bushes, but it would take many years to grow trees.

  I followed my resolve to take better care of the knee and stopped early.

  Naked Hikers

  The next day was exceedingly warm, 89-degrees in the shade, and there was precious little shade. I pushed a bit and made it to a lovely stop at Deep Creek Bridge. Wonderful water underneath big trees. Hikers frolicked on the banks of the river, some even diving into a deep pool. I settled for a little wading, rinsed out my socks, and gave myself a wet bandana bath to parts acceptable to show in mixed company. Many hikers I already knew were there: Ursa Minor and Southern Gentleman, Headnout and Tagnalong, Tailwinds, Black Snake, Backtrack and Ipod. I sang Holden Evening Prayer that night for five.

  The following day I was carried away with enjoyment of hiking, though my knee said I should have abided by my plan for a shorter day. We were in Deep Creek Canyon all day. The trail cut high above the creek, and we looked down on the river with its many pools and rapids.

  An experienced PCT hiker had fallen to his death in that canyon a few years previously and sadness shook the PCT community. But hikers still hike the trail. Even experienced hikers can make a miss-step or be blown off balance by the wind. But then, one can as easily step off a curb in traffic by accident. A father of one of my friends tripped on a curb outside a motel on a road trip and received lasting damage. There are dangers everywhere. The trail is not unique in that respect.

  Deep Creek Hot Springs are natural hot-spring pools at the edge of a delightful river with deep water. Beside the river were cliffs and rocks from which to dive or on which to sunbathe, as well as generous portions of sand. Almost everyone frolicked in the water, including me. A couple ducks came right up close and little fishies swam by my legs.

  Hot spring water blended into cool creek water, making anyone’s desired water temperature available. Clothing was optional. There were some naked hikers, but most of
the folks I knew kept their clothes on this particular day. I thought the young hiker dudes wandering around without clothes except for hiker hats and sunglasses were quite funny. I hoped they wouldn’t suffer sunburn on parts normally unexposed to sun.

  Camping wasn’t allowed at the Hot Springs. Since I did so well getting there, and the knee felt so good, I decided to go to the dam (five miles) instead of stopping at the lovely arched bridge. (two miles). Silly me.

  We had a bit of excitement leaving the Hot Springs: Tailwinds startled a rattlesnake on the trail, which startled her, too. I took a picture of the snake slithering across the trail and then gingerly passed while it was still buzzing its rattles.

  Tailwinds and Ursa Minor also made their way around the snake, who seemed to have no desire to go farther than one foot off trail. We warned Backtrack and Moon Pie coming behind us, and Backtrack stayed to warn a couple other hikers. The orange-colored rattler wasn’t happy to have been disturbed.

  A sand bar by the river was home for the night. Loudly chirping crickets and gently flowing water lulled hikers to sleep as hiker midnight approached. (Hiker midnight is whenever the sun goes down.)

  I really did plan to take care of my knee by not going very far the next day. Really. That was my plan. I even intentionally packed up very slowly so my friends, Tailwinds, Ursa Minor, Southern Gentleman, Black Snake, Crosscut, Headnout and Tagnalong, would all be gone ahead of me, and I wouldn’t be tempted to try and catch up.

  But I reached Grass Valley early for lunch, and the weather changed from hot to a nice cool overcast. Well, phooey. I really liked hiking when it was cold. How could I justify sticking around somewhere all afternoon when it was too cold to bathe or wash clothes? Hiking in cold weather was to be treasured in Southern California.

  Contouring around hills and gullies in a strong wind, other hikers caught and passed me after a short chat. Gypsy Lulu caught up with me and slowed her pace so we could talk. I told her when she went on that I would be stopping soon. I really meant to do so. But no good place appeared, and soon I was walking the trail around Silver Lake. I didn’t find the hikers’ spot in the campground, though Grins later came by my tent and told me where it was. I just picked the first spot I saw. Too tired to move, I inserted my bag into my collapsed tent as if the tent was a bivi bag, and snuggled in; dry and warm, I was quickly asleep.

  Cajon Pass

  The plan had been to hike to Cajon Pass in seven days from Big Bear. I just kept getting places too fast. I liked being near people, who had become friends, and I made it in five.

  All went well until the final downhill, a killer for me, a thousand feet down, in direct sun and no shade. Some of the trail was fairly steep, on hard packed dirt. It was difficult for someone, who must always lead with the left leg going down such a steep trail. Remember, I couldn’t hold my weight with the left knee for any more than a four-inch drop in elevation. This steep trail required a deeper drop within a normal step length. I also couldn’t step with the left foot in high-impact heel strike without pain.

  Steps deeper than a four-inches drop give high impact. It wasn’t a quick descent for me. Stiff wind gusts threatened my balance near a severe drop off over eroded dirt cliffs. It seemed a long way down.

  Across the hills and valleys past Interstate 15, I could see the San Gabriels and Mt. San Antonio’s snow, smoke billowing up on the far side of the San Gabriels from another fire. Fire season seemed very early.

  Finally reaching the Interstate, I was happy to stagger into McDonalds, wash my hands and face and comb my hair for a modicum of presentability. I ordered a big meal with added fruit and a large shake. Even more importantly, I sat down off my sore feet and aching knee.

  As I was finishing my meal, another hiker came in, nodded to me in recognition I was a hiker, and sat in the next booth. Even off trail, hikers can pick each other out, and it isn't just the pack that gives it away. It’s like having a large extended family, many members of whom you have not yet met. Seeing each other, there is an instant, even if brief, connection.

  Catching a hitch to the Best Western on the kitty corner cloverleaf, I soon rejoiced to be showered, fed, and horizontal, not intending to move for a long time on a zero day. After all, I’d arrived two days early. I needed that rest day. I was quite tired, but I didn't sleep well because too many body parts were aching and calling my name. In the morning, I enjoyed bagels and cream cheese in the free continental breakfast and talked to hikers including Sly, Grandpa Kilt, and Ursa Minor.

  Zero-day chores included laundry, catching up with my Pocketmail journals, making phone calls, and checking my email on the computer in the lobby. After dozing a bit, Ursa Minor and I had lunch at Taco Del Mar. She was hoping to get a ride to Wrightwood to see a doc about her ankle, which seemed to be getting worse. In the afternoon, I slept for three hours, making myself get up so I would sleep that night. I was still tired.

  I walked out to the lobby just as Nitro was unloading hikers from her car, including RockStar. Nitro quickly agreed to take Ursa Minor to Wrightwood, where she was headed next after putting out water in Swarthout Canyon. In a quick juggle of motel rooms, RockStar ended up in Ursa Minor’s room, as it was too late in the day for Ursa Minor to get her money back. That night I walked across a highway to get a sub for dinner, and I’d then sampled all the fast food places on the cloverleaf and had half the sub left for lunch the next day.

  Wrightwood

  The following day: Oh my, was it hot. Seeing no one who appeared to be a likely ride at the gas station, I walked to McDonalds, about half a mile around the cloverleaf, and I was sweating freely by the time I got there. I’d brought my half sub sandwich from last night's dinner and ordered a large chocolate shake to go with it. They had a special of a free chicken sandwich with any drink, so I ate that too, a very nice early lunch in air-conditioned comfort.

  After slathering myself with sunblock in the ladies' room, I started out to hike about 10:30. It was HOT. The only thing that made it bearable was the wind. Then my right foot decided to hurt. Hey, what was up with that? It was supposed to be my left knee that hurt, not my right foot. How can I limp on both legs at once?

  On top of a ridge looking down on Swarthout Valley, I searched for a place to sit and scrunched myself into a tiny bit of shade from a small bush. After a few minutes in that uncomfortable position, I limped on down the trail another mile or two to find a more comfortable opportunity under a sycamore tree and just lay there for 20 minutes, cooling down.

  I finally started hiking decently the rest of the way to Swarthout Road where my trail angel, White Buffalo, was chatting with Gordon, another trail angel supporting Nimble Will. She brought me a cold pop and some orange juice, too, which I inhaled.

  I’d drunk over a liter in the short distance I’d traveled in the heat. Loading up with seven liters of water, (15.4 lbs.) I only hiked a half-mile more before stopping. Although it was only 4:30, I stretched out in the shade and didn’t go further that day. My knee liked my decision.

  The next morning I was on the trail at 5:45 trying to beat the heat. I started at 3,700 feet and camped at nearly 8,000 feet. The ridge I thought so high and hard coming down to Cajon Pass looked like a mole hill from my campsite, and the hills I’d sweated over in the heat the day before seemed rather tiny below me.

  I met Hard Core, Latecomer, and Whiz in the late afternoon, and Whiz took my picture to show his mother, an old lady with a bad knee. They went on, and I camped under Pine trees on a little saddle below the trail, wind in the trees singing me a lullaby as I drifted to sleep.

  Before reaching Guffy Campground in the morning, Glow Worm caught up with me. He saw my gimpy-legged descent as I started down the steep trail to the spring and offered to get my water. I was very grateful. It saved a lot of work down and back up with my overworked right leg doing most of the effort. He even went back to a trail-magic cooler and brought me a lemon lime soda. What a nice young man.

  When I reached Wrightwood, I found the pl
ace full up with hikers. No room at the inn. But when I walked past the already full cabins at The Pines, RockStar called out to me from inside her cabin. She had an empty bed in her room. Hallelujah. Having a shower, I became human again, clean except for the dirt streak on the back of my right leg that had become part of me. I scrubbed it twice with soap and wash cloth, but the dark streak remained.

  Ursa Minor got off trail with a broken 5th metatarsal on one foot and a very sprained ankle. Backtrack also got off trail after developing gallbladder problems. These were not planned departures like mine, but the trail, like life, throws unexpected curves to demolish carefully laid plans.

  After Wrightwood came the climb up Baden Powell. I trudged up 22 switchbacks before the snow banks made counting difficult around 8,000 feet. The rest of the way over steep snow or bare hills, I could usually tell where the trail was supposed to be. It was hard to go up steep snow without a left leg able to kick proper steps in the snow, but I made it to the top for a great view and a good lunch, watching 20-something hikers, Good Times and Squarl, build a little snowman and throw snowballs down the trail.

  Next came my longest and most strenuous day, more than 16 miles. RockStar, who had started from Wrightwood three hours after me, caught and passed me just before Little Jimmy, where I cowboy camped next to a snowbank.

  My last night for the year was at Buckhorn Campground, where I holed up in my tent for protection from a multitude of flies and mosquitoes, the only time I’d put the tent up since the San Felipe Hills. Late in the night, other hikers, including Circle, a woman close to my age from Portland, set up their tents nearby.