I cross the Mojave on the aqueduct, following a straight line across the desert through wind farms and rocky service roads. Massive spiraling turbines arc overhead, waving down at me like the arms of white giants whose silhouettes line the ridges ahead by the hundreds, sentries solemnly rooted in treelike groves guarding the passage from the Tehachapi mountains, across Antelope Valley and into view of the Southern Sierra. The roadsides along the aqueduct are an infinity of sandy Joshua Tree forests with formations shrugging and twisting comically skyward. Occasionally there is shade, but the chilliness, uncharacteristic to this section, keeps me alternating quickly between layers. a mid-April storm brings wind and hail, and as I spin around to view my progress for the day I'm dwarfed by black clouds rolling in a panorama towards me, darkening the landscape as far as the eye can see.
I think of my early permit date, my lack of zero days taken on the first 600 miles of desert, and the late snows undoubtedly dumping torrents into the High Sierra just ahead. I'd done little research in terms of administrative framework of the PCT, and was unaware that applying for a long-distance permit included selecting a specific date on which to begin.
In Nashville over the winter, I butt-dialed my ex girlfriend while kneeling to play with a kitten on the kitchen floor of a friend's Eastside apartment, and was replied to with a casual mention of "getting the date I want" to start the hike. Later I'd learn of the incredible fallibility of the permit process - that it is undoubtedly impossible to enforce, and in all functioning actuality for collecting data and monitoring impact on the southernmost sections only. Nevertheless, being ahead of the bubble (and ahead of anyone in the Sierra) affected nearly every aspect of my hike, from frigid temperatures in the desert to undeterminable sections of lost trail for hundreds of snowy miles through the mountains. In Washington, months later, my group and I would be appalled at the necessity of sharing a tentsite with actual strangers, seeing as we had scarcely seen other thru-hikers until North of Lake Tahoe, when folks began to flip to avoid new snow.
Water is scarce in the valley, despite the irony of following the pipeline that services the entire population of Los Angeles. I've never been to Los Angeles and don't intend to - I feel as if I've lived there vicariously through the overwhelming influence its setting takes in popular culture. With all the imagery satisfied, I'll opt for Southern California as the PCT portrays it: in a wide loop around the city to avoid civilization entirely, though the smog and light can still be seen of course, from a hundred miles away. I meet other hikers at a water cache, and consider stopping early to wait out the storm as intermittent raindrops begin to speckle the ground sometime in the late-afternoon. I'm keeping a breakneck solo speed, legs becoming accustomed to longer days, so I'm reluctant to quit early and opt instead, to climb up towards Tehachapi alone, seeking the next available water source listed somewhere north seven or eight miles. I'm almost halfway to it when the storm arrives, and I'm immediately pelted by nickel-sized hail which eventually turns to snow as I climb higher. I sleep cold but securely, boiling silty gray creek water for my dinner. In the morning I'm met not only by a fresh dusting of powder but also a pair of large cat prints around my tent in a wide, inquisitive, and perfectly-distanced circle. A week of damp weather follows me the 86 miles from Tehachapi to Walker Pass, and though Kennedy Meadows is only two days more, I opt for a supplementary resupply in Lake Isabella, a 20-mile downhill hitch from where the trail contacts California Highway 178. I've avoided towns as much as possible thus far, being overtly frugal in the early days of the near-six-month trip, burdened with the expectations of spontaneous and unpredictable expenses that will undoubtedly surface once gear items need replacing and commodities become more precious in the wearier days to come. California natives I've met hiking the PCT offer a wealth of reference beyond that of any guidebook or app, and their impressions of this area speak volumes. The desert anywhere tends to attract those in need of extreme space, including those of a particular lifestyle beyond the interfering eyes of urbanization and consequently, law enforcement. Rural communities affected by meth and opiates are ubiquitous throughout the United States, uncanny in vibe once you've learned to recognize the weight that they exhibit. Lake Isabella has a characteristic roughness to it, and the lake itself coincidentally is nearly dry. Few businesses operate, locals shuffle slowly between them in the lowland heat, and drive like absolute maniacs down the winding highway leading west from the Pass at speeds that would deter even the boldest of hitchhikers. I arrive at the Walker Pass trailhead with Gandalf (Elia Rechtman), who I've become acquainted with at times further south. We discuss life broadly, expanding our trail language far beyond the usual subjects of water, food, and defecation. Elia is multicultural, with a tenacious nature and a vivid, elevated world view that never rests. His poignant questioning of everything all of the time is bright and refreshing, and I feel an immediate kinship. He sports a pair of blue, round-framed glasses a shapely long beard, and he speaks expressively with an endearing accent that's nearly untraceable. He snaps tasteful landscape photos of the sunset as we descend towards the Pass, and our philosophical banter echoes into the night when we're met by Steve and Liz, a nomadic couple in an impressively built four-wheeled home. At their campsite there's wine, snacks and although the night grows colder by the minute, the warmth of our hosts is infectious. We meet two hiker couples who soon thereafter disappear, both of which opting for Ridgecrest and the promise of motel rooms. Steve and Liz show us their handiwork: a wood-paneled interior to their coach that's been stained and expertly curated, a small stove emanating heat from a corner and ample surfaces with books and sundries. It seems a thousand times larger from the inside, and my curiosity for rubber tramphood is permanently piqued. Before pitching camp, I sign my new name in the nearby trail registry book. The only names listed are from one day prior, and I don't recognize them from anywhere before: Airborne, Lights Out!, Wheels Up, Rabbit, and High Maintenance. In early morning, Elia and I begin our hitch effort, which is met more easily than expected by a pair of traveling nurses leaving work from their overnight shifts at a nearby clinic. In the grocery store we sit at a table charging our electronics, eating Oreos with peanut butter and strategizing the miles ahead. Gandalf chooses to take the day off, firing off emails to gear companies and lingering for friends who've lagged behind. We make vague plans to reconnect in the Sierra, but no plans on a thru-hike are set in stone, so we hug each other goodbye, wordlessly acknowledging the possibility that we may never see each other again. It's midday by the time my feet hit the pavement, and the sun beats unapologetically above. There is no shade along the highway, and my pack is heavy with food. I characteristically forget to fill up water before leaving, and am soon parched. Cars speed past me, alone now with my thumb out in an area where pedestrians of all varieties roam the sidewalks, rambling to themselves in crank-induced mania or digging through garbage bins for aluminum. In travels to developing regions I've seen myriad examples of extreme poverty that [almost] don't exist in the US. Drugs and drug addiction are predictably unpredictable, and I don't feel as threatened by urban transients, no matter their disposition, as many of my peers are inclined to be. Simply put, I've seen it before and know, for the most part, how to carry myself. If anything, I even enjoy interactions with strangers because it keeps my humanity in check; if I choose not to offer aid, I have to think deeply about why and if I do offer aid, what kind of aid I offer has an exponential impact. In any case, the lessons are telling and seeing someone living in hard conditions reminds me of how closely I myself have been to experiencing the same trauma in my own life. Whether we realize it or not, an overwhelming majority of Americans are but a few poorly-timed decisions away from losing their entire livelihood to addiction and economic oppression, a combo so viciously intertwined that assuming it weren't purposely so requires nothing short of shutting your eyes as tightly as you can. My own experience has been colored, blessedly, by the intervention of a few key characters who have made positive influences at dire times - influences that had I gone without I'd be in a sorely different situation now. It's easy to run out of resources, but what's not discussed nearly as much is how easy it is to run out of relationships, and furthermore how
to maintain healthy relationships if we follow the prescribed competitive American narrative. It's simply not as much of a priority, and is a key proponent in why people (particularly middle-aged male veterans) so often find themselves destitute. I'm by no means a person of means, but although standing on the roadside in Lake Isabella feeling relatively disenfranchised is a momentary discomfort, it's nothing. The privilege I express by choosing to be homeless is of the most extreme. I have given up most of my possessions to be here, and I've exchanged months of my life in labor to facilitate it. Yet still, it is my choice, regardless of where I reside on the hiker-affluency-spectrum, which is broad. Furthermore to experience the natural world in this way is to live at the furthest and most amplified position of privilege, when considering the very concept of land ownership. We pontificate endlessly about the righteousness of public land and the constructs that enable our use of the outdoors, but reality transcends the poetic and (admittedly inspirational) languages of alleged naturalist heroes like John Muir, Theodore Roosevelt and Stephen Mather. We thrive always at the expense of someone else historically, and this trend has not ever gone away. This realization floods my head when I begin to complain. And at this moment, a thin and weathered man on a bicycle crosses the highway towards me after a few solid minutes of suspiciously eyeing my pack. He has bags of aluminum cans strapped to the frame, and his clothes are clearly second or third-hand. His pupils are dilated and when he opens his mouth to speak I can count the number of teeth he has on one hand. As customary with heavy use, I can't identify whether the man is in his 40s or in his 70s. "Hey, don't do that here." "Do what?" "Don't hitch here, the cops are hot. Just take the bus, man." "I'm a hiker, I'm just heading back to the trail at Walker Pass. I hitched down here." "Man, you're not listening. They pick you up here, and you go to jail. Take the bus! Here." The man, who has stopped his pedaling to offer instruction, reaches into his pocket and extends to me a very crumpled one dollar bill. It dawns on me suddenly that he doesn't know what I mean by "hiker". Judging by my appearance alone, it would be hard to decipher if you weren't familiar with the culture, or weren't aware of that the Pacific Crest Trail was nearby, or even that it existed at all. I decline his offer and try to explain further, but he pedals off, shaking his head and shouting more cautionary comments over his shoulder. I'm shaken at myself for making assumptions - I ought to know better. As the man first crossed the street towards me I had braced for a fight, felt for my wallet in my hip pocket and put one hand on a trekking pole, stashed at my side and collapsed. In Guatemala, I had once used a trekking pole to thwart a would-be mugger in the street as he tried to rob me of my backpack, and the action for defense materialized as suddenly to me as it had in that instance. I was appalled at myself. I can't say for sure how many of those one-dollar bills the man had in his pocket, but judging by his collection of cans and obvious substance of choice, I ventured to guess it somewhere between the number that I had, and zero. Still, he had thought I was homeless, like him, and did not want to see even a stranger get picked up by the police for solicitation or loitering. It took me another hour before I finally yogi'd a ride, but I couldn't shake the memory of the man's face. Gaunt, crazed, but sincere. Compassion flows in wild shades. I understand addiction, wholly. I can't speak for someone else's experience, nor can I generalize with mine, but I can choose to view someone else's struggle with compassion, even if I'm in a position not to participate. All I could think of as I rode back up to Walker Pass was how I could extend the same sentiment forward. In a manner easily overlooked when passing someone while driving in our own vehicles, there is a portrayal of humanity unavoidable at street level, a vantage at which you can see directly into the eyes of the vulnerable human behind them. It's as simple as urbanization: our cities, our infrastructures, are designed without physiological human relations considered (compared for example, to a fully walkable/bikeable city like Copenhagen). Life as a pedestrian will change you, especially when you find yourself easily overstimulated by billboards and advertisements in a 360 degree radius. As hikers, we experience unimaginable and random expressions of kindness, but it can be disconcerting to know that the gifts we receive, though always appreciated, are comical in a sense. Hikers notoriously will walk all day for a free hot dog, consider you godlike for giving them a 5-mile ride to a grocery store, and friend you for life if you buy them a beer in town. Even still, when such occurrences grace my day, I still think, "Why me? Why does this attitude exist in the trail community but almost nowhere else in our culture?" The question remains: "are you in need?" and how we choose to answer holds not only countless implications, but a million further questions.
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