We set out from Tehachapi last Sunday, our packs laden with seven days of food, determined and eager to conquer the final one-hundred-fifty miles of desert leading up to Kennedy Meadows and the Sierra Nevada. We hiked aggressively despite 90+ degree heat and the bleakest, most barren stretch of rock and prickly, shade-miserly shrubs we’ve yet passed. Gummy Bear was with us when we left town. Together we completed 25 miles on Sunday. 22.7 miles on Monday. Tuesday morning Lisa and I limped 5 miles and had to stop. Gummy Bear had to go on. Younger, stronger, and seemingly impervious to thirst, Noah has his own hike to hike. Lisa and I are utterly exhausted and my feet have expanded beyond the capacity of my boots. Monday night, the little toe on my right foot was painfully blistered. Tuesday morning the skin at the root of my toenail was swollen and red and additional blisters formed a crusty rind around my heel and ankle. Each step drove my toenail backward into the toe. I hiked without a sock hoping to free up some space for my poor little piggies but the pain was too much. We decided to rest until evening by a spring-fed cattle trough and miss out on the heat of the day. That evening we made our way slowly into the night, spotting our first kangaroo rats (headlamps render them directionless idiots) and keeping an eye out for the scorpions that supposedly come out in the dark. We covered an additional 8 miles before midnight, slept for six hours, then hiked another 11 miles before noon on Wednesday. With morale low, we took a siesta beneath some scraggly pines atop a jagged, windswept peak overlooking the desert. After some debate, Lisa and I decided to head to Lake Isabella, order some new boots from REI and wait for my feet to heal. I say feet because favoring my sockless, wimpy little toe had caused new blisters on my opposite foot and strained my left knee as well. Despite that, we ended up completing 23.5 miles by Wednesday evening and another 9 miles to the highway on Thursday. A lovely pair of trail angels, out replenishing a water cache, picked us up and took us to Lake Isabella. REI is overnighting a pair of new, larger pair of boots but because they weren’t shipped until today (Friday) Lisa and I have to lie around a small motel in this faded, one-horse town until the package arrives sometime on Monday. We’re a little concerned about the expense we’re incurring but at the same time we’re giving our muscles a rest while completely indulging in the ice machine and pool. The motel has a sun-bleached, great-place-if-you’re-on-the-lam-vibe, although it’s evident that the owners do their best to care for the place and keep its lovely little gardens and shrubbery vibrant and trim. The manager is a congenial fellow, although he seems surprised to have hikers show up this late in the season. He keeps dropping hints that we’re behind and I’ve found myself several times defending our progress, arguing that we’ve covered 600 miles in a month and that we regularly pass other hikers. He doesn’t seem to believe me. When I added three more nights to our stay I could it see it plain in his face, his belief that Lisa and I are a pair of lollygaggers.

I’d post a picture of my foot but why worry anyone? Honestly, it’s already heeling up nicely and the new boots will feel like stretch limos as we cruise out of here Monday evening. Parental units, do not concern yourselves.

The last hundred miles have not been all doom and gloom. Actually, there was additional gloominess not associated with my feet that I should relate. On Tuesday we encountered a gentleman enjoying an illegal dirt bike ride on the PCT. He rolled up behind Lisa, revving his engine indicating his desire to pass. We tried ignoring him for a while in a petty attempt to teach him a lesson, but realized we were being silly. When we did finally step off the trail to let him by, he drove up alongside us and a civil and intelligent conversation ensued, and by civil and intelligent, I of course mean hostile and worthy of Fox News. He insinuated PCT hikers were selfish for not wanting to share the trail, we mentioned that his presence was illegal, dangerous, and damaging to the trail itself. He countered that that merely was our opinion before tearing off down the narrow trail, flying around the corner toward our good friend Gummy Bear. We chased after him, yelling for Gummy Bear to watch out although, really, the sound of the dirt bike was its own clarion call. G.B. stepped out of the way well before the rider reached him. Then, rendering our argument even more pointless, the PCT joined an official dirt bike trail for the next four miles. We didn’t see any more motorcyclists, but I assure you, the ironclad diatribes laced with hilarious zingers that I formed in my head would have made them instantly repent, jump off their dirt bikes and cast them off the mountainside.

On Tuesday, just as my foot was truly becoming a bother, Lisa and I stopped at a spring where we met a new hiker. We’ll call her Clover, and she sat down beside us, looking for friendly folks with which to vent her frustrations. Clover had started the trail back in April and had repeatedly injured her ankle. Her most recent injury was not the worst but Clover was simply fed up with the heat, her discomfort, and sluggish progress. She was quitting the trail. Lisa and I both tried to console her, commending her for the huge section she had completed, the longest and arguably most challenging stretch of the PCT. Clover nodded politely but she really just needed someone to listen to her own thoughts. We asked if she needed assistance getting to the next road/campground but she assured us she could hobble there on her own. We never saw her again although we met several trail angels the next day who rather overzealously mounted a small search party equipped with SUVs and ATVs until Clover finally emerged from the woods.

Quitting has not truly entered our minds, although Lisa and I joke about taking our funds and catching a cheap flight to Hawaii, taking up surfing and living on the beach instead. Seriously, what’s the use of sand without the ocean to go with it? That said, we certainly don’t blame Clover for her decision. Pain sucks the joy out of the hike, especially when every other footstep hurts. We keep meeting hikers only to see or hear about them hitching around large sections of the desert. When we reached the highway leading to Lake Isabella we learned from a hiker about a party of ten or so others that had simply decided to hitch around the last fifty miles before Kennedy Meadows. It’s hot as hell out here and the scenery has gotten old. We get it. But at the same time, Lisa and I are proud that we’re sticking with the desert. I just hiked thirty miles on mangled feet! That’s an accomplishment, right?! Maybe not, but reaching the Sierra Nevada on our own feet will be, and while we might be delayed in town, we’re not giving up on the desert. We’re going to blast out of here Monday night, rejuvenated and with sweet new footwear. “These boots are made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do.”

On June 10th, Lisa and I completed our first month on the PCT. We also passed the 500 mile marker on that day although we had not quite hiked five-hundred miles. There have been a few trail closures, two stretches bypassing fire damaged areas and one circumnavigating some endanger toads and their habitat. PCT officials have laid out detours that include road walks. A lot of hikers hike these detours while others are uncomfortable hiking on roads. Lisa and I have hiked some of the detours and skipped others with too much traffic. Purists would no doubt scoff at us but we don’t feel like risking becoming hiker-pancakes. That’s my new term. Feel free to use it.

Since leaving Wrightwood, we’ve been hiking a lot with our good friend Noah, who finally has his trail name: Gummy Bear. One guess on what his favorite snack is on the trail. Lisa and I also have trail names now but more on that later. Gummy Bear, our Orange County native and guide to all things southern California, shares camp with us at night, wakes up after Lisa and I have taken off in the morning, then blasts by us around midday and beats us to the next campsite. His brother periodically drives up from Los Angeles to bring Gummy Bear his supplies. When Gummy Bear needed to replace his shoes and pack, his brother arrived and took us all to an REI in North Ridge, LA. It was quite a shock to go from the empty desert into the teeming edges of this packed metropolis. Inside the REI store alone were more people than we see in a week. Gummy Bear took us to an In-and-Out Burger where we devoured burgers, fries, and shakes while I quoted lines from the Big Lebowski in my head and marveled at the dozen workers crammed inside a tiny shack, toiling shoulder to shoulder over deep fryers to stay ahead of the lunchtime rush. Lisa and I have been discussing a move to Los Angeles after we complete the trail but our little sample of the urban sprawl has left us a bit daunted. That said, many thanks to Gummy Bear for letting us ride along, load up on some much needed calories, and replace some holey socks.

For a pair of New Englanders, the novelty of hiking in the desert has all but worn off. The mountains seem so brown and lifeless under the unrelenting sun, although in truth, the landscape is not that much more barren than where we started the PCT near Campo. We’re now at mile 558, with only about 150 miles left before we reach the Sierras, and I am restless to escape the desert. We long for the shade of trees and water sources that are more than stagnant puddles or muddy trickles down hard-to-reach canyons. One thing we can’t complain about (actually, we have the luxury of hiking across the country so we really can’t complain about anything) has been the weather. While we have had a few days were temperatures rose above 100 degrees, for the most part it’s been unseasonably cool. We had rain for the two days during which we cross a corner of the Mojave. Rain in the Mojave in June!! I will often sigh a breath of relief whenever a cloud blots out the sun, especially while I’m chugging up a mountainside. When it rains, I’m in heaven.

Every night, camping is a new experience as our home is constantly changing. The last several days have been more fascinating than usual. Our first night out of Wrightwood we camped illegally in an closed campground with picnic tables and unlocked privies. The next evening, we slept at a KOA campground crowded with boy scouts and weekend campers, bought ice cream and soda from the camp store and ordered pizza from town. The following, we cowboy camped under the stars in an empty lot next to supermarket in Aqua Dulce. We woke up before dawn and set a personal record when we hiked 24 miles to Casa de Luna, the home of famous trail angels Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. The Andersons and their renowned hospitality deserve an exclusive blog post which I hope to get to later. It was here that Lisa and I settled on our trail names, Rebel and Laughtrax, respectively. Rebel because Lisa carries a Rebel SL1 camera that to most weight-obsessed hikers would seem a ponderous and annoying load. Laughtrax because I often surprise hikers with random bouts of laughter while I’m hiking. The laughter is not because I’m maniacal or crazy, or not just, but because I often listen to comedy podcasts while hiking. After Casa de Luna, Rebel and I returned to camping at the usual little patches of flat ground near the trail. Last night and tonight, we’re recuperating at a Best Western in the town of Tehachapi.

It’s late and tomorrow we’re setting out on a seven day stretch to Kennedy Meadows and the conclusion of the desert. So much more has happened that I want to write about but it will have to wait. Lisa and I are healthy and safe and excited for the high peaks of the Sierras. They’re only 143.7 miles away. No sweat. Or lots of sweat.

Since last I posted, you read, Lisa and I reconnected with some hiking buddies, missed out on a party at some natural hot springs, ate at our first L.A.-style fruit stand, experienced Del Taco, and traversed the desert at night. It has been very hot out, even in the higher elevations, and water has been in short supply. As I tend to go a bit insane when there’s no water in my pack (picture Humphrey Bogart coveting gold toward the end of Treasure at the Sierra Madre) Lisa and I have both been very meticulous in plotting resupply and making sure we stay hydrated. No descent into madness has occurred… yet.

We left the San Bernadino National Forest and are now in the Angeles National Forest, although the “forest” is in short supply below 8,000 feet. Radiating rocks and clay, hot white tributaries of sand, and stubby and shadeless bushes are plentiful. It’s been in the high eighties and a surprising number of hikers have been hiding out in towns or hitching rides around some of the longer, desert sections. We’re frankly a bit surprised by how often this occurs. Folks we have passed on one day will appear the next, usually by a watery oasis or a patch of civilization. Everyone has their own idea of what a thru-hike is, I suppose.

The day after departing Big Bear Lake, Lisa and I caught up to some friends, Reid, a mechanical engineer from Blacksburg, Virginia, and Noah, a recently retired marine from Orange County, CA. They’re a great pair of guys, very different from one another but excellent hiking buddies. We rejoined them in the morning at some hot springs along the trail. Sleepy hikers, both local and thru-, lay about after what appeared to be a hard night of partying. Lisa was sad to have missed out on soaking in the springs while I was rather relieved. After a week of unfamiliar faces, Lisa and I were pleased to join up and hike with Reid and Noah for the next few days. Noah in particular is excited to introduce us to anything remotely associated with southern California culture, including a fruit cocktail near Interstate 15 in Cajon Pass. Stopping at a food cart with a bright, rainbow patterned parasol, Noah insisted we order the works: chunks of pineapple, watermelon, cucumber, mango, cantaloupe, coconut, and (totally new to me!) jicama, all of it doused in chili sauce and lemon juice. Delicious, although Lisa was not into the chili sauce. The rest of the afternoon was spent at a gas station/Del Taco restaurant, gorging on fast food and watching traffic on the highway nearby. Some people pulling into the rest stop eyed us askance while others asked us where we were hiking. A surprising number knew of the PCT.

Reid decided to stay in a hotel at Cajon Pass. He let the rest of us use his shower and rest in his room for a bit. Noah, Lisa, and me ventured out under a waxing moon, under the highway and beneath some very active railroad tracks, and climbed for five miles into the night. The moonlight threw our own shadows onto the sandy trail, which glowed like a white ribbon and was so bright that we did not need to use our headlamps. For long stretches we would hike along narrow ridgelines with large drops into darkness to either side, the electric ooze of thick traffic on the highway below appearing strangely foreign and unreal. The hike was thrilling but at the end of a long day we cut the evening stroll short and made camp by a water cache on the San Andreas Fault.

We’re now in the mountain town of Wrightwood. We’re more than halfway done with the blasted desert. I’m counting down the miles. Sun without shade and water is not much fun.