Hikers started leaving early in the morning, and Ziggy and the Bear’s back yard emptied out quickly.
Ziggy gave us a disapproving frown when she found out that we were planning on hiking around the Lake Fire Closure, rather than taking the bus. Most everyone else was on her shuttle to the bus station. She said Highway 62 was no place for hikers.
The whole morning was windy, keeping the desert heat at bay. The persistent wind of the area had not gone unnoticed – the valley we walked through was lined with wind turbines.
We hiked about 10 miles on the PCT proper before our alternate began.
The alternate took us into a local preserve centered around a stone house, where we had lunch. So far, so good.
Then the alternate took us down a series of dirt roads, then instructed us to bushwhack through the scrub towards Highway 62. In the scrub, we passed a burned-out shack. It had an old-fashioned hobo fire circle next to it.
To make the last few dozen feet towards 62, we needed to get through some barbed wire. Inexperienced, I snagged the back of my shirt while crawling under. My well-ventilated desert shirt is now slightly more well-ventilated.
We reached 62, and crossed under a drainage bridge, and started north in the runoff area.
It was full of car wreckage, rusted steel beer cans, oil bottles, and anything you might expect to be poorly secured in the bed of a pickup. We got to walk through the detritus of a desert highway.
Further north, the highway entered a pass, and our route became a rocky wash. My left foot had been bothering me for a few days, and the rocks were really aggravating it. Whenever the point of a rock hit the wrong part of my foot, it got a gasp out of me.
The route took us under 62 again, back to its west side via a dirt road underpass. There is sloppy graffiti on most underpasses we saw on 62, but this underpass seemed to be out of the way enough that people take time with their graffiti.
The dirt road snaked through a small settlement, where we saw some interesting cacti.
Finally, our route connected to its final section, a lengthy, draining, uphill march directly on Highway 62.
The drivers stared at us – people walking where people do not normally walk – and a few of them honked. Whether to cheer for us or warn us, it was hard to tell.
As the cars zoomed towards us, a song that my grade school music teacher taught me kept going through my head:
Toreador, en garde
Toreador, toreador.
All eyes are fixed upon you standing there.
Be sure your sword hand is steady.
The final plunge, beware.
Toreador, all eyes are on you there.
I started to wonder whether it would be a good idea to wave my red bandana at the oncoming cars, like charging bulls. I decided it would not be a good idea.
Something about road walking takes a lot more out of you than trails. It might be the static scenery. It might be the bad trail surface, poorly-suited for lightweight trail-running shoes. We started losing our ability to converse. We had conversations about how we weren’t able to have a conversation.
The hard road was further aggravating my left foot. I started imagining blood seeping through the tongue of my shoe. I had no idea if the pain in my foot could be an injury that can bleed, but if that happened, at least I’d have an excuse to hitch into town.
It didn’t, of course. We kept waking. The pass got slightly closer. My foot hurt. We kept walking. Etc.
We did take one break, for a bathroom stop at a friendly mid-highway liquor store. It was the kind of place with a 55 gallon drum out front where you can throw your empties before starting on the road again. It was full to the brim.
While waiting on the front porch, a sunburned man in shorts and an open Hawaiian shirt slowly wandered up. He started telling us a secret about the planets. He kept walking past us, still telling us his secret. He walked around the corner, out of sight, still talking.
Another man, thin and nervous, joined us on the porch. He asked us where we were from, where we were going, and that we were walking. He was impressed by what we were doing. He talked about the virtue in walking, about how it makes you think more clearly. He walks 12 miles a day. At least, since they made it illegal for him to drive.
His ride started to leave. He hoped on the back of a pickup and waved goodbye. “See you at the meeting!” he said.
The toilet paper in the bathroom was reportedly a stack of newspaper.
Then, we did more walking, miles more. But we did, at last, reach Yucca Valley. We checked into the America’s Best Value, where they gave us a hiker rate. They put Elizabeth and I in the European Suite, with a fountain on the wall. At the flick of a switch, a stream of water would shoot from a lion’s mouth into a pool.
We had just finished our first 30-mile day, and it seemed that nobody would want to walk to a restaurant. We heated water in the coffeemaker, and made our trail food. Mine was top ramen and tuna. The water wasn’t quite hot enough, but it was edible.
Then, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Wonky. It showed a picture of her and Bill having milkshakes. “They’re amazing”, she said.
So, Elizabeth and I bundled up in our cold weather gear, walked to the restaurant, and ordered shakes. They were amazing.
Service was slow, though, because a waitress was hospitalized just after we placed our orders.
We finished our milkshakes, went back to the hotel, and fell fast asleep.
I need to know this secret about the planets…