Danny Southern Terminus.jpeg — The Desert.

First Stretch: Campo to Julian.

*The following is an excerpt from my next book, Rip: The First Two Million Steps Along the Pacific Crest Trail, which will be a prequel to my novel Crunch: A Million Snowy Steps Along the Pacific Crest Trail (available for purchase here, if you’re interested)

Day 1: Campo to Lake Morena. 20 miles.

March 26th, 2017

A First day.

I ran my fingers across the grey monument erected just a stone’s throw from the rusty U.S./Mexico border wall. I’d seen the famous monument a thousand times in pictures, and it was surreal to be there in person, although it was a tad smaller than I’d thought.

“Are you doing the whole thing?” a timid, middle-aged asian woman asked me. Her small pack and trail running shoes told me she was also heading off on the PCT.

“Oh, definitely,” I replied—never mind I had little to no idea what hiking 2,650 miles entailed. “You too?”

“I hope so. It’s a long way to Canada,” she chuckled nervously and extended her hand. “I’m Aika.”

“Danny.”

Melanie and I spent a few minutes talking with Aika and Liz, her girlfriend. They were both warm, smiling people, which offered a certain amount of relief. We’d spent years living in a trailer parked around popular climbing areas. Our comfort zone was inside the climbing world, and didn’t know what to expect from the hiking community.

I felt a bit fraudulent stepping up to the PCT plate, and into what I viewed as a rather elite challenge in the hiking world. The longest backpacking trip I’d ever completed was 133 miles, and it’d about killed me—if one could die via whining oneself to death. But Aika and Liz were as welcoming as everyone we knew and loved in climbing. That felt good. Familiar.

Aika took off on her journey, and I took a minute to clip my nails, so as not to be burdened with the weight of nail clippers in my backpack. My pack’s contents were meticulously thought out. I wasn’t carrying an ounce over what I absolutely needed. Extra length of nylon adjustment straps had been trimmed, my toothbrush had lost most of its handle, and I’d engaged in dozens of other borderline-OCD tweaks that had brought my pack weight to just under 18 pounds for the first 80 miles. It wasn’t technically within “ultralight” backpacking, since I was far too soft to go without a stove or a tent or a sleeping pad—or all the other ridiculous things those folks were capable of forgoing—but I slid pretty neatly into the “lightweight” backpacking crowd, and was proud of how low I’d gotten my pack’s base weight. Two years prior, I’d been known to carry forty-five pounds to spend one night in the backcountry.

I gave Mel a long hug and a kiss, then headed north. But not before calling a favorite Simpsons quote over my shoulder.

“Bye Mel. Don’t touch my stuff.”

She laughed. The best sound in the world.

I was a mess of nerves, feeling a tad overwhelmed with what I was getting myself into. The downside to telling everyone you’re going to hike 2,600 miles, is that they expect you to hike 2,600 miles.

Will I make it? What if I can’t even make it to the Sierra? What if my knees start acting up? Wait, WAS THAT A TWINGE OF KNEE PAIN?!!

Fifteen minutes of imaginary pains later, I walked up on the marker signifying the first completed mile along the Pacific Crest Trail, which was great—albeit a bit depressing. Fifteen minutes multiplied by 2,600 is… a giant number.

I really had no idea how my preparation stacked up against my fellow PCT suitors, but I’d spend the day being reassured. I’d expected to fall in line behind a slew of seasoned athletes, but a few miles in, I passed a pair of hikers nursing blisters and clearly regretting their clever choice to celebrate their first steps with a 32-ounce Monster energy drink chug.

Maybe I’m more prepared than I think.

There was water everywhere. There were four liters on my back enjoying the ride as I stepped over stream after stream. The first 700 miles were often referred to as the “desert” miles, so I’d packed water accordingly—sure I’d be stumbling through a never-ending expanse of rolling dunes with one of those threadbare rags whipped around my head… and a camel, probably. But I’d eventually learn this wasn’t desert, but chaparral, a terrain unique to the west coast of the U.S., and nothing like what I expected. Most seasonal streams were flowing from the heavy rainfall throughout the winter, but my inexperience ensured I spent the entire day with an extra ten pounds of liquid fear tugging at my shoulders. I was sure the second I dumped out any of my water, the sea of dunes and camel stores would appear.

Somewhere online, I’d read a humiliating story about a man who’d ran out of water on his first day on trail, and had to call in a rescue. That had seared into my brain.

I couldn’t be that guy.

Being so close to the border, there were several signs warning of illegal immigrants. To my knowledge, there had never been any dangerous encounters between PCTers and immigrants, but it certainly held the potential to not go well. I’m sure after all the anxiety and stress over sneaking across the border, the last thing an immigrant wanted was to bump into a potential tattle-tale. There was also the real possibility of immigrants being led into the U.S. by a coyote who’d been paid to make sure the family made the passage safely—at any cost.

But truthfully, I wasn’t too worried about it (for I was far too brave and manly) until I turned a corner ten feet from a Mexican family of four, a middle-aged man, woman and two young girls. The man had a heavy, cotton sleeping bag tucked under an arm, the only sign of backpacking gear between the four of them. One of the girls had a small bundle of clothes hugged in her two small arms… and I was suddenly worried.

All five of us stopped. Every one of their eyes locked on me, and the expression on the man’s face was obvious concern. He glanced at the woman then back to me.

“Good morning,” I smiled, doing my best to appear harmless. “It’s beautiful out.”

It wasn’t beautiful out, it was cold, grey, and gusty. But I didn’t know what else to say.

Nobody replied. It was possible none of them understood what I’d said. I resumed walking, smiling and nodding as I walked past the man whose concern hadn’t gone anywhere. I put myself in his position, being a father with his entire family’s future at stake.

If I were him—would I just let me go?

Allowing a strange hiker to walk on by was a clear gamble. For all he knew, I’d be calling in the authorities at my earliest convenience… but lucky for me, their ideal passage into America probably hadn’t involved murdering and burying a hapless hiker carrying a bizarre amount of water.

It took a few miles for my unease to lift. I was honestly a bit spooked. That was an interaction I hadn’t foreseen actually happening. More yellow signs appeared in Spanish, warning to not expose life to the harsh elements. Being raised in Arizona, my Spanish wasn’t was what it should’ve been, but I knew enough to decipher the last few words.

“It’s not worth it.”

Heading down a series of long switchbacks, I came across another disturbing surprise.

Poop. Literally, a single, uncomfortably huge log (bravo, by the way, to whomever survived birthing that thing) sitting square in the middle of the trail. I would’ve suspected it wasn’t human if it weren’t for the eighteen-square-long banner of Charmin that had been draped atop the beast. Someone must’ve been terrified of their own butthole, because in the half-a-tree of wiping paper they’d used, I could only spot one tiny dab of doodie.

I stopped for a few seconds, my face frozen in confused irritation. The boy scout engrained in me was furious.

This is the Pacific Crest Trail. One of the most famous, iconic trails on the planet—and you just dumped directly on it?

I wasn’t sure where my disgust was directed. It could’ve been an immigrant, clearly in a socio-economic position that wouldn’t give a single solitary shred of a shit about something like the PCT—but I doubted it. Immigrants probably weren’t packing rolls of top shelf toilet paper. That seemed more along the lines of a privileged, pampered, first-world backpacker ass.

But that was almost harder to handle. Surely I wasn’t on trail with hikers able to not only dump directly on trail, but then litter on top of it, and then not even attempt to—I don’t know—roll it to the side??

Who would do that?

My instinct when I saw trash on trail was to pick it up. I looked at trail hiking as part enjoyment, part service project. I felt better about my day outside if I knew I’d left it better than I’d found it—but I drew the damn line at biohazards. I already loved the Pacific Crest Trail, but I wasn’t about to slip someone’s turd into my back pocket to hang out until I came across a trash can.

Yes, that would’ve been the only option. Clearly.

I grabbed a stick (extra long and… sturdy), then rolled Jaba From Butt off to the side. I almost gathered the motivation to gather the whole roll of toilet paper lying there. It only had the one spec of biohazard on one end. That little bit of nastiness was damn near insignificant, where the culprit had dabbed their butt like a French debutante politely dabbing her lips with a silken napkin.

But I couldn’t do it. I’m just not that good of a person.

These harmless little guys were sunbathing all over the trail.

Hauser Creek was the first potential campsite, fifteen miles away from the border. Immediately after the creek, there was a notoriously hot 1,200 foot climb out of the drainage. The south-facing hillside reportedly baked in the sun all day, leaving a prudent hiker to camp at Hauser and then do the climb the next morning, when it’s cool. So naturally, I hit Hauser at 2 p.m. and headed straight up the hill.

It was unexpectedly hot, but the excitement of starting my journey kept me chugging along. I passed a few other PCT hikers in various stages of suffering. Nobody was very happy. One couple’s relationship was on the rocks, a common side effect of death-marching your sweetie uphill in the blazing sun.

The scenery was beautiful. Much more enticing than the dunes I’d planned on staggering through. After a 20 mile day—a distance I’d walked straight only a handful of times in my life, I strolled into the established campground at Lake Morena with a slight hiccup in my gait. The fancy new shoes I’d been wearing weren’t as broken in as I perhaps needed them to be—and the pads of my feet were protesting.

I found a shack where a couple employees pointed me in the direction of the PCT group site. It was empty when I first arrived, but Aika soon appeared, along with a half dozen other hikers finishing up their first big day. It wasn’t a proud group. Pretty much everyone had at least a bit of a limp going on. Most strolled into the camp looking great, but after sitting for an extended period limped and groaned their way around.

Really, with just my bit of pad soreness, I’d faired better than most. That felt good. Reassuring.

Right as Aika and I sat at one of the concrete picnic tables to start preparing dinner, a fired up blonde woman stormed into camp with a hulking turtle shell of a pack.

“THIS? Is not fun,” she announced in her fellow hiker’s general direction. “I’m not wasting my summer ruining my feet.”

Nobody replied, and the young woman plopped down on her phone and disappeared into the glow of the screen. A shy, slightly built Korean guy approached, hesitantly nodding and making sounds as if he were requesting to join us. I gestured for him to have a seat.

“Hello. My name is Danny,” I said with a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Humandamumma, eyasho… esho,” he replied (roughly), to which I nodded with another smile, making no attempt to commit any of the sounds he’d just made to memory.

He pulled out a little red book, which had the shimmery, gold words “Korean-English Dictionary” imprinted in the cover. He flipped the crisp pages back and forth, then back to a page, then set the book down.

“You, hike. To ehhere… today.”

I nodded, impressed. “Yes, I hiked here today. Did you start the PCT today also?”

“Eh, eehYES!” he replied.

We shared a smile, smug in our conversational victory.

He pulled his Jetboil stove out of his pack and set it on the table, then a pack of something with Asian writing all over it (that’s as specific as I can be), and lastly, to tie his dinner together nicely—a fifth of Fireball whiskey in a heavy, glass bottle.

“Damn, bud. You’re ready to party.”

He nodded toward me. “Whiseh-key?”

This guy clearly had his English priorities straight.

“Sure,” I shrugged, pouring a small amount of the alcohol into my titanium cup.

I sipped it slowly, doing my best to suppress any grimaces. I wasn’t a huge fan of the intense sweet, cinnamon flavor of Fireball. Not because it wasn’t tasty, but because back in my Navy days, I’d had my fair share of mornings waking up in-and-around Fireball-infused vomit. Sometimes mine, sometimes other’s.

Good times.

I’d ruined many alcohols for myself in those formative years as a young sailor, but the refusal of a shared drink could be a slap in the face for some, so I wasn’t going to turn down the generous offer from a new friend.

While I tried my best to enjoy the luxury of alcohol on the trail, a clearly miserable, middle-aged man limped heavily to an adjacent concrete table and proceeded to slide out brand new everything from his backpack. I don’t mean his gear was on the newer side, I mean he slid out a tent still in the box, then unpacked a jacket dangling with the seventeen dozen tags presumably necessary on new jackets. He unboxed a small knife, which he used to cut the tags off the jacket.

I’d started the day rather nervous to be hiking the PCT, wondering if I had the experience and the planning required to execute such a preposterous hike. I’m not going to lie, watching that man reading the directions on his tent sack was boosting my self-confidence.

“Ughfffff,” the sound of pure disgust brought me back to my Korean friend, who had a horrified, puckered face, scanning the bottle of Fireball in confusion.

A smile spread across my face. “Oh no. This is cinnamon flavored whiskey. Did you think it was just plain whiskey?”

His face was frozen in disgust, with zero comprehension of what I’d said, and a trail name was born.

“I’m going to call you Fireball.” I said with a weaselly grin.

Aika giggled. Fireball looked between us still with zero idea what was going on.

A car appeared. The young blonde exited her trance, and she was gone.

I can’t believe someone could quit already. What did she think she’d be doing on the PCT? Not walking? I suppose talking about hiking the PCT is more glamorous than walking uphill and occasionally tiptoeing over piles of used toilet paper.

Enjoying (?) some sips after a hard day.

Total mileage along the PCT: 20

*This is the end of the excerpt from Rip, I hope you enjoyed it. The writing from this point on is from a series of blogs I wrote as I worked my way north.

Day 2: Lake Morena to Burnt Rancheria. 22 miles.

March 27th, 2017

A trail name day.

When I left Lake Morena around 7 a.m., just about everyone had their goals set on making it to Burnt Rancheria in Mount Laguna, CA. This might have been a lofty goal, seeing as how that day's 20 miles were going to be mostly uphill... and this was the first time most of us had attempted to hike 20+ miles, two days in a row. So I set off alone and started hacking away at the miles. I felt great, but my feet were SO tender from the day before. I sent a message to Mel to start looking at insoles (isn't technology ridiculous?).

Hiker hunger kicked in really hard that day. I hadn't had much of an appetite the day before because of nerves, so I had my lunch from the day before still in my pack. For lunch I ate the lunch I planned, the previous day's lunch, and then three nights worth of dessert... I hadn't packed enough food.

I met an amazing couple named Kevin and Samantha. They were doing a training hike preparing for their PCT permit date in a couple weeks! I talked with them about living in Bishop and what my strategies for the Sierra were. Where to camp the night before summiting passes, what gear choices I'd made, how to cross rivers etc. all came up. After they suggested a couple trail names (Golden and FreeSolo), the one that's going to stick might be 'Beta', which in climbing lingo means 'the lowdown on how to climb a certain route, often down to nuanced details'. It also works right into my PCT Instagram account, @hikerbeta! Too perfect. I hope I see Kevin and Samantha down the line.

The rest of the day wasn't too crazy. I crossed the I-8, the first major interstate crossing. Saw a baby rattlesnake, maybe only six inches long (Kevin almost stepped right on it!). The landscape shifted from desert into pine trees as I climbed the 3000 ft up into Mt. Laguna I was dragging feet as I crawled into Burnt Rancheria campground. It was dusk, and there was no sign of anyone else. The campground was still closed for the winter and it was cold up there. Temps dropped to around 35F with 20 mph winds all night. Every layer I had with me was barely enough.

The closed campground had bathrooms and water faucets, but everything was locked/off. My alcohol stove wasn't working well in the high winds, so I had to belly up to the wall of the bathroom to cut the winds down enough to boil some water for my exciting teriyaki rice sides!

Using the closed bathroom building to shield myself from the wind.

Nobody else ended up being able to make it up to Burnt Rancheria, so I slept alone in the ghost town campground, just barely warm enough (or maybe just exhausted enough) to get some sleep.

Total mileage along the PCT: 42

Day 3: Burnt Rancheria to Chariot Canyon Road. 22 miles.

March 28th, 2017

A creepy day.

The weather had calmed down in the morning, but it was still super cold. I waited until the sun came up before I emerged from my tent. Water was on my mind. I had expected there to be some water in the campground... but there wasn't and I was running on empty. I started my hike and headed toward two semi-reliable water sources. If those were dry, I'd have to backtrack into the little town of Mt. Laguna to fill up on water. Luckily, there was a water faucet (which was off) and a concrete cistern that had some semi-clean water in it. The water was limited, so I only took a liter and thought I'd try my luck with the next source.

A short ways down the trail, I found a campground with the water on! I filled up all four liters to prepare for the long, dry day. I only passed two water sources the entire day. One was a full, but scummy water tank in Pioneer Mall (a strange little walk with memorial plaques and graffiti everywhere), and the next was a seasonal stream that was actually really good, clear water.

Odd memorial plaques among the graffiti at Pioneer Mail.

During lunch I made the mistake of drinking water from the concrete cistern without filtering it. I had accidentally filled up one of my 'clean' water bottles with the dirty water without noticing. I took a nice swig of algae water before I realized the taste was off and there were little pebbles in the bottom of the water bottle... oops. I mentally calculated when the next time was that I could be permanently stationed on top of a toilet, inventoried my anti-diarrhea pills, and set off down the trail again. Trail gods, keep the giardia away, please.

The views were amazing all day, overlooking the desert below.

I wanted to get as far down the trail as I could. Melanie's birthday was the next day, so I wanted to be able to quickly get into Julian the next morning. All I could muster was 22 miles though. Most of the day was downhill, but my foot pads were so incredibly tender, I had to stop for the night. I still had 14 miles to go until Julian.

Seasonal stream where I loaded up on all the water I'd need to get to Julian.

I ended up camping near Chariot Canyon Road next to a few people, but I was too exhausted to be social. As the sun went down, I was already in bed.

But then I woke up to barking. High pitched, panicky, angry fits of barking. It started far away, but got closer and closer and closer. Silence between every fit of barking was long and creepy. The animal would start up again and the barking was eventually coming from just feet outside my tent. I could make out a silhouette, but couldn't figure out what the animal was. A coyote? A dog? What would a dog be doing all the way out here? But coyotes don't sound like that... I sat up and leaned into the back of my tent with my little four-inch knife out. The animal creeped over to one side of my tent, I could hear it sniffing and moving around. The silhouette appeared in front of the tent, just a thin layer of bug netting between us. Adrenaline was pumping hard. Was I really going to have to deal with an aggressive animal three days into this trek?? Would I be able to handle it if it attacked?

I said out loud, "If you come in here, you might win. But I'm gonna make sure you bleed too, buddy".

The animal stopped moving toward the front of my tent. I sat still and waited. Eventually, the animal moved along, pausing for a couple more barking fits before it went silent for the night, leaving me to jump at every noise for the rest of the evening. A bird was building a nest in the tree directly behind my tent the entire night.... I really wish that little guy would've chosen a different night.

I was shaken up and nervous, but my exhaustion took over and I fell asleep surprisingly easily. I was sure I was going to be up all night.

I awoke to my alarm at 530. It was still dark, but I wanted to be in Julian by noon to meet up with Melanie. I packed everything up with my knife in my hand, nervous that the animal was still around. I was hiking at first light.

I've never been so happy to see the sun.

Camp near Chariot Canyon Rd. I can safely say, I never want to camp here again.

Total mileage along the PCT: 64

Day 4: Chariot Canyon Road to Scissors Crossing (Julian). 13 miles.

March 29th, 2017

A pie day.

Happy birthday, Melanie!

Taylor had the OG Polaroid camera out at Julian. Mel and I right off the trail.

I stepped out the downhill/flat 13 miles in about four hours, fueled by motivation to see Melanie and apple pie.

Morning hiking out from Chariot Canyon Rd.

Another harmless snake out in the desert. Grateful that rattlers haven't been out much.

I was definitely in the desert now. Long stretches of hot, dry, boring hiking... This section is one of the longest without solid water sources, around 36 miles. But I hear there's a water cache (water in coolers that people maintain) under the 78 overpass.

Stretches like this basically connect the dots between much better hiking in California. You're not going to get out of southern California without hiking in some desert. Sometimes it feels strange being so far away from water. So unnatural, and kind of anxiety producing. But I've had more than enough water on me the whole way so far. I had eaten the last of my food earlier in the morning, so I was starving when I got to Melanie. Definitely going to load up on food for the next stretch.

Mel, some homeless guy, and Taylor in Julian.

I was picked up on the S-2 near Scissors Crossing by Melanie and our good friend Taylor who surprised me with a visit! We went into Julian and went straight to Mom's pie shop, where I'd heard that PCT hikers got free pie. I not only got free pie, but they comped my whole meal! (Which was basically just a crazy amount of pie and root beer floats) (It is TO a meal, Mom!). I signed their PCT logbook, met another couple of PCT'rs (Marble and Boston Chris) and spent the day just walking around Julian, but mostly (and most importantly) not walking.

The Desert. First Stretch: Campo to Julian.