Rattlesnakes and Bald Eagles

by Chris Townsend

  The little town of Wrightwood was just three miles from the PCT, which is why I’d decided to use it as a supply point, preferring to walk the extra six miles in and out than carry ten days food in one go. What I didn’t know was that the descent from Blue Ridge was very steep. There was supposed to be a trail but I couldn’t find it in the snow and ended up descending what was probably the wrong canyon. The terrain was treacherous and the steepness unnerving. This descent was the scariest part of the walk so far. Initially I was on hard icy snow where I wished I’d had crampons and was very glad of my ice axe. This changed lower down to equally steep soft and loose snow mixed in with steep loose scree and steep loose mud. At every step the ground slipped from under me. Very scared I slithered and skidded down 3,000 feet of this, hanging off my ice axe. Finally the slope eased off and I could walk normally. Soon I was in Wrightwood, another pleasant town in the woods, where I discovered the clocks had gone forward the night before so there would be an extra hour of daylight in the evening. On the trail this didn’t really matter as I didn’t walk to the clock anyway. I’m not one of those hikers who’s walking within minutes of waking up and who does most of the day’s distance before noon (I have read that this is the mark of a serious walker). I struggle to be walking an hour after waking up. Mostly I don’t even try for an early start and just wake up slowly and set off when I’m relaxed and ready then walk into the evening. I don’t try and follow a set pattern either. I prefer to follow how I feel at the time and to react to my surroundings. Of course I had to plan supplies but whilst I might know that it was 90 miles to the next supply point and that I had to be there in 6 days if I wasn’t to run out of food that didn’t mean that I set out to walk 15 miles every day. I might walk 10 miles one day and 20 the next. I might stop to camp at a lovely site early in the afternoon or I might walk on into the night because I felt energetic. I didn’t plan breaks either, unlike some walkers who like to stop for ten minutes every hour or always have an hours break half way through the day. I stopped when I felt like it, often because there was a good view or a water source, and sometimes walked for many hours without a break. Where knowing the time did matter was so that I could arrive in places before the post office closed.

  As I’d arrived in Wrightwood on a Sunday I couldn’t pick up my supply parcel until the next day. While I waited I went shopping for extra food, film and books so I could leave reasonably early the following morning. Remembering how hungry I’d been feeling I made up some very rich trail mix from M&Ms, butterscotch flavoured pieces, carob-coated walnuts and raisins. That should pack a high-energy punch, I thought (it did but also turned out to be rather too sweet). Then, on Warren Roger’s recommendation, I visited two stalwarts of the Pacific Crest Club, Phil and Bing Le Fouvre, who kept the Wrightwood PCT Register and had a reputation for hospitality to long distance hikers. Sure enough they welcomed me in and let me take a bath (so much more soothing than a shower!) and wash my clothes (it would be chary to say this was in self-defence but I expect I did stink). When my fibre-pile jacket (for those curious fibre-pile was the precursor to fleece) came out of the drier I was amazed at how fluffy it was. I hadn’t realised just how matted it had become. Leafing through the register I was interested to find two more British hikers who’d done the PCT.

  That night I slept out in some woods at the edge of town. The night was warm and humid and for the first time my sleeping bag felt a little too hot. Traffic disturbed me early in the morning and when the first coffee shop opened for breakfast at 7 a.m. I was outside waiting. Full of a giant cooked breakfast I was then outside the Post Office when it opened. The contents of my parcel decanted into the pack I took the latter back to the Le Fouvre’s to weigh it. 56lbs. That was with a week’s food, 11/2 litres of white gas and two paperback books. I was pleased to see that there were four evening meals I hadn’t tried yet in my supplies but disappointed that two of them required simmering for twenty-five minutes. Why ever had I bought those? It wasn’t the time that bothered me but the fuel use. I just hoped they were tasty.

  Wrightwood being a ski town with the Mountain High Resort just outside it I thought it might have an outdoor gear shop. It didn’t. For the High Sierra I wanted crampons, gaiters and snowshoes. Maybe I would have to leave the trail to go out and buy them.

  The climb back up to the PCT from Wrightwood took two hours. Heading uphill I took a better route and although steep the terrain didn’t feel threatening. There followed several hours on a mix of trails and dirt roads past closed ski tows, the winter season being over, and closed campgrounds, the summer season not having started. The immediate environs weren’t inspiring but looking back I could see Mount San Antonio while ahead was Mount Baden-Powell. I stopped for the day right at the start of the ascent of the latter in Vincent Gap and made camp under a spreading interior live oak tree by a snowmelt stream. Setting up camp had now become almost automatic. Lay out my groundsheet, inflate my sleeping mat, spread my sleeping bag out on it. The pack was propped up with my ice axe or propped against a tree. The stove was set up by the groundsheet. Once my water containers were full I could sit on the mat and relax, light the stove and make dinner. I loved creating this little haven in the wilds each night. Camping is an important part of the backpacking experience for me and I liked to have time to enjoy staying in one place a short while and watch the wildlife and the landscape and the sky, especially when I could sleep under the stars and didn’t need the tent. In fact one of the most delightful experiences of the whole walk was to lie under the trees listening to the quiet subtle sounds of the night and looking out to the distant lights of the universe. This spot was quite pleasant but sadly over-used with several blackened fire rings full of rusty cans and broken glass. The Angeles Crest Highway was not far away, making access easy in summer. Now the road was still closed for the winter so there was no traffic.

  The previous day I’d seen three fresh sets of prints on the trail and suspected they might be from Scott, Dave and Larry. They tracks had vanished before I’d reached Vincent Gap though and I’d forgotten all about them until the next morning when I heard voices approaching as I ate breakfast. And there they were, having been camped just a few miles back. I must have walked right past. Having no ice axe or crampons Larry decided to walk the road round Mount Baden-Powell while Scott, Dave and I set off up the steep snowy mountain. The climb took us through pine and fir forest and then 2000 year old gnarled and wind-stunted limber pines. The snow was just soft enough to kick firm steps. This 9407 foot peak was the first real mountain of the walk and the view from the small summit was superb. Looking back I could see Mount San Antonio and Blue Ridge and, far in the distance now, San Gorgonio Peak and San Jacinto Peak. Ahead the mountain fell away to dusty foothills and the Mohave Desert. The sun was hot and the air sharp and crisp, making the summit a delightful place to linger. Unsurprisingly Mount Baden-Powell, named for the founder of the Boy Scouts back in the 1930s, is very popular with Scout groups when snow-free. There were no other people or even any tracks this early in the spring however.

  Descent was on a neat little corniced ridge that undulated over a succession of lower summits. It was afternoon now and the sun was hot so the snow was soon soft and the going more arduous than on the ascent. Finally I realised it was easier to slide than trudge and had a 400 foot sitting glissade down to the highway at the bottom of the mountain. Here we camped at a closed picnic area, ignoring the sign that read No Overnight Camping. Soon after we’d set up camp we were surprised to be joined by two other PCT hikers, Gary and Tom, and their dog Hershey, who’d followed our tracks in the snow. It was nearly two weeks since we’d last met any other PCT hikers and we’d forgotten there were others on the trail. Writing in my journal by candlelight I noted ‘Today possibly the best of the trip yet. A real mountain day’. We’d only walked ten miles but the distance didn’t matter.

  A mix of snowy hills, pine forests, sandy washes and chaparral occupied the next three days as we dipped in and out of mountai
ns and desert. We met three more PCT hikers and only the second group of non-PCT hikers I’d seen. The walking was pleasant without being dramatic. My head was still on Mount Baden-Powell. A final descent, looking out over a cloud inversion to desert hills, took us to the old mining town of Acton where we found Larry and two PCT hikers who’d set off a month before me. Larry had a fresh salad and strawberries waiting for us, a delicious feast after all the days on dried food. Even better he’d met a local woman, Delree, who’d offered to give us a lift into Los Angeles the next day. I didn’t particularly want to visit L.A. but this did solve my problem regarding gear for the High Sierra.

  A strange day followed. An urban day of freeways, cars and buildings. We visited four outdoor stores in the San Fernando Valley. I spent $250 and came away with crampons, snowshoes, gaiters, insulated bootees, High Sierra topo maps, a quart water bottle to replace one that had cracked and, most pleasing of all, a copy of The Sierra Club Naturalist’s Guide to the Sierra Nevada. Now I just had to carry it all across the Mohave Desert. Unusual though it was, the day off from hiking felt good. It was 17 days since my last one in Idyllwild.

  Back in Acton other PCT hikers had arrived and soon there were eleven of us discussing the trail. The big Transverse Ranges lay behind us now. Ahead only the Mohave Desert separated us from the Sierra Nevada. Only the Mohave Desert, only excessive heat and lack of water, only a real desert. And then would come the snow. The Mohave Desert isn’t the barren sandy desert of the imagination though. It’s not the Sahara. Although it receives less than five inches of rain a year the Mohave is rich in plants and animals with over 250 species of the latter. I was looking forward to crossing it, though not to the heat.

  Initially the walking was in more chaparral and dusty brush through the low Sierra Palona Mountains. The air was hot and dry and we were thankful for the trickles of the last snowmelt water in the creeks, creeks that would be dry soon. There were many dirt roads and many dirt bikes roaring past with a stench of petrol. But there were also flowers, masses of flowers, especially tall yellow Western Wallflowers. On the second day out from Acton we saw our first rattlesnake, a big one, about four feet long, which rattled at Larry. It was the first of many and almost subconsciously I soon began avoiding long grass and the vicinity of bushes. Once when the tall grass was unavoidable we were walking on the narrow trail in single file when a loud rattle came from the grass at Larry’s feet. Chaos ensued as Larry leapt backwards and collided heavily with Scott whilst Dave and I piled into the two of them. Then we saw the snake, a dark four foot long thickset coil that slowly straightened out and slid into the grass.

  As we approached the flat expanse of the real desert the weather changed unexpectedly. It had been mostly hot and clear for over two weeks but overnight the skies greyed and we woke to a thick wet mist and moisture dripping off the trees and bushes. A day of drizzle, cold wind and low cloud followed. Again the flowers were the main joy of the walking, particularly the great swathes of bright orange poppies. The desert was in bloom, a short-lived event. Little settlements provided relief from the weather. At Lake Hughes we stocked up with the last food supplies for a while, and ate plenty too. At the Fairmont Inn Betty and Ralph Morgan cooked us a superb meal. We met few people but those we did were all friendly and curious about our walk. One local man gave us half a dozen fresh eggs each. That evening I broke four into my Mushroom Pilaf, keeping two for breakfast.

  The route here and right across the Mohave Desert was a temporary one whilst negotiations went on with the large private Tejon Ranch for a permanent one. Today’s route is very different from the one I hiked, the only place on the trail where this is so for any distance. Some books though still suggest that the route I took is preferable to the official one, which sounds very much a compromise. The crossing of the Mohave began on a dirt road signed 140th St.West which we followed for ten miles towards the distant Tehachapi Mountains, at first through alfalfa fields where sprinklers were running constantly and then out into the dry desert and the first Joshua trees. I found these giant members of the yucca genus fascinating. Slightly sinister and slightly animate I kept expecting them to move. The biblical names comes from Mormon settlers who crossed the Mohave in the nineteenth century. On this long road section I read the natural history guide to the Sierra Nevada, which amused the others.

  Across the Mohave there was a series of isolated homes whose residents had built up a network of overnight stops and water supply points for PCT hikers, an almost essential service. We were heading for a remote house belonging to an elderly lady called Mrs Davison who welcomed hikers. She made us coffee and let us sleep on her covered porch as rain still looked likely. The sky cleared though and a bright nearly full moon rose into the sky. In the distance we could see the lights of the desert towns of Lancaster and Palmdale. Wind chimes hung from the porch, their sound soothing and melodic in the warm desert wind.

  From Mrs Davison’s the next thirty-five miles mostly followed the Los Angeles Aqueduct through an arm of the Mohave Desert known as Antelope Valley. The aqueduct was built in 1913 to bring water from Owens Valley below the High Sierra to rapidly growing and thirsty Los Angeles. Every mile there is an inspection cap and back in 1982 these could be opened (I believe most are now locked). There was just room to insert a water bottle and reach down and fill it with the cold rushing snowmelt water that was essential to Los Angeles and, at the time, to PCT hikers. Ten miles out from Mrs Davison’s we stopped at one of these water sources and decided to sit out the heat of the day. We pitched our groundsheets as awnings to provide shade and cooled off by dowsing each other with the cold water. Under the awnings it was 27ºC. In the sun it was much, much hotter.

  Rattlesnakes were common in the Mohave Desert. That first day we encountered four, including two big Mojave Greens. One of these lay in the middle of the dirt road and rattled aggressively at us, only moving when Scott lobbed stones towards it. After our siesta we saw two more that quickly slithered away as we walked into the night watching the sun set and the moon rise over the desert. We also saw large tortoises moving slowly over the stony ground. Finally after a 24-mile day we camped next to the Aqueduct. Despite the late night a bright moon and a strong gusty wind made sleep difficult and I was awake early to see a spectacular desert sunrise, the whole land glowing gold and red.

  We were through the flat heart of the desert now and entering the foothills that would lead to the Sierra Nevada. This was still desert terrain though - the Mohave ranges in altitude from below sea level to over 8,000 feet - and still hot and dry. Tiny settlements provided liquid and breaks from the heat - Cinco, which started out as a work camp for workers on the Aqueduct, where we had a meal at Spragues Restaurant, the only building, then Cantil, founded as a station on the Nevada and California Railroad, which had a good little store and a post office. At the last place we sat out the heat of the day again, resting from noon until late afternoon and drinking fruit juice and eating enchiladas and ice cream. Another PCT hiker wandered in. Wayne Fuiten was ex-military and highly organised, clicking off every step on a counter, resting for five minutes every hour and averaging nineteen miles a day. He’d left Campo nine days after me and had taken no rest days. So far I’d had three. We were to see Wayne frequently over the next three days and I was to meet him again in northern Oregon but we never hiked together as my random stops and widely varying daily mileages couldn’t have fitted with his organised progress.

  Continuing along the aqueduct after our siesta we eventually camped beside it in Jawbone Canyon. I just loved these Western names! I pitched the tent to keep the wind off but slept on top of my sleeping bag because of the heat. I was looking forward to cooler nights. They would come as the trail was climbing now, up through pleasant high desert mountains past Butterbredt Spring, a nice spot with cottonwood trees and a small pool, and along Butterbredt Canyon to Butterbredt Well, where there was a windmill to pump the water. The water in the well was green and polluted by cattle but we managed to extract c
lean water from the inlet pipe. The repeated occurrence of the name Butterbredt made me wonder just where it came from. Research after the walk revealed a German immigrant called Frederick Butterbredt who prospected in the area in the late 1860s and whose descendants lived in the area for many years.*

  The day ended under more cottonwoods beside Kelso Creek (cottonwoods are a type of poplar that grows by water - I was to learn on other desert walks that the sight of cottonwoods in the distance meant there would probably be water there). People from a nearby house, the Plants, gave us fresh water. The scenery was pleasant, the walking not difficult and there were still masses of flowers. Even so I would be glad to leave the desert. The heat was overwhelming and the sandy landscape changed very slowly at walking pace. Never having been to a desert before I’d been excited at the thought of hiking through one and was glad I’d experienced it. Now though I was excited at the thought of leaving it. I also felt elated because at Kelso Creek I passed the 500-mile mark. I could let myself be excited too as only nineteen miles remained to the town of Weldon, which since Campo had meant the end of the beginning, the end of the initiation and the start of the Range of Light, the magical Sierra Nevada. The knowledge that these mountains were still snowbound and as far as I knew no-one had yet hiked the PCT through them this year only added spice to my anticipation. These were the mountains that had sparked the whole adventure and now I was almost there.

  We were three thousand feet higher than Jawbone Canyon and thankfully that meant a cooler night. I fell asleep watching bats flying round the cottonwoods. The last desert day saw a change in the weather, which felt like a welcome to the mountains, and it was very windy and quite cold. The walk to Weldon was along a road, hard on the feet but fast, and with the weather keeping us moving we were soon there. Weldon was a dusty little town strung out along the highway. We established a base at the KOA Campground, which was to be home for three nights as we spent two days in Weldon. Apart from one small store at Kennedy Meadows this was the last place I’d see for twenty-six days so it was here that preparations for the snow and the mountains were made. I collected my supply parcel from the post office and was delighted to find five tubes of glacier cream, which I’d need in the sun and the snow at high altitude, and excited by Warren’s maps and the next sections of the trail guide. Scott and Dave collected skis, which they’d stashed here when they drove over from home. Larry’s snow gear arrived, sent from his home, so he would be able to come through the Sierra. Wayne however, who turned up soon after us, was going to hitch-hike round the Sierra, intending to return and hike this section after the snow had melted. I guessed his strict schedule wouldn’t work in high snowy terrain. Another PCT hiker, Ken, who I’d first met in Idyllwild, had changed his mind about going through the snow and was going to walk roads round the Sierra. We’d met no-one else who was planning on hiking through the snow.