Alone in a Storm: Type 2 Fun on the Trans Catalina Trail

Read Part 1 of my Trans Catalina Trail thru-hike here! 

Coffee Can’t Save Me

At the ripe ole’ hour of 7am, Pete gave us a wakeup call. “C’mon, you lazy sacks! Let’s go! Do you want to hike in the dark again?”

I groaned and rolled over, trying to ignore him. But finally, I conceded that it was time to get up. I was glad I did the second I rolled out of the tent. Golden hour was just breaking, bathing the hillside in ethereal, unnatural pastels. I snapped a few photos before joining the others at the picnic table.

I fought the urge to yawn all through breakfast, the fancy coffee that Pete brewed failing to revive me. I didn’t get much sleep because I was an idiot. I’d evidently set up my tent on a slant and didn’t notice until I was tucked into my sleeping quilt. Even when I realized what I’d done, I was too lazy and cozy to get up and move the tent. It was my own fault that I would be walking into 15 miles of hiking good and sleep deprived.

Accidentally Pissing off a Herd of Bison

We packed up after breakfast and followed a wide dirt road around the mountain, the road winding up a slow and steady ascent. The road soon became a proper trail again, dropping steeply into a notch between the trees. I eyed the mountain across the way, knowing we’d soon be climbing up that if we wanted to reach what was called the Airport in the Sky (yes, Catalina Island has an actual airport on it….), where we were planning to have lunch at the café.

As we began our climb out of the valley, a hiker in the distance waved his trekking pole, pointing to the right. I lifted my pole in response, a little confused. Was he trying to tell me where the trail was? I could see it clearly marked.

Then I walked around a corner and understood in an instant what he was pointing at. A herd of seven bison stood glowering at us, less than five feet off the trail.

Pete and Songbird were there too, gaping at the bison. While we stared, a bison with a broken horn lifted its head and stared back. The bison warnings from the information kiosk last night – not to mention, all the bright yellow signs that peppered the trail, warning of the bison’s aggressive nature – flashed through my mind.

I thought back to a time where my partner and I drove through an island covered in bison, similar to this one. We’d stopped to take pictures of the herd out our windows when a single bison stepped onto the road close to our car. I remembered how my partner gripped the steering wheel, nervous the bison was about to charge. That bison had been at least two car-lengths away. But this time, we were much closer. Too close. And we weren’t in a car.

Joey the pup took a step forward, curious about his potential newfound friends. Pete’s head snapped towards his dog. “Joey,” he said, his voice low and coiled. The broken-horned bison walked onto the trail, its undivided attention fixed on Joey. Then it took a few steps closer. “JOEY.” Pete’s voice was a whip this time, grabbing the dog by his collar and pulling him back.

Pete picked up Joey and started striding towards me, back the way we came. “We’re bushwacking,” he announced. “That one with the broken horn is NOT HAPPY with us.”

We climbed a slope that carved a wide berth around the bison. Anne and I waited for a few hikers who were lagging behind to warn them not to walk onto the trail. As we left, the bison with the broken horn watched us walk away, never dropping its gaze. I swallowed hard. That could have been problematic. Apparently, those signs hadn’t been over exaggerating the bison’s territorial tendencies.

Lunch at the Airport in the Sky

We rejoined the trail and followed it up to the airport after another short climb. There, a building towards the back of the facility housed a touristy visitor center and dive café. I ordered a plump chicken sandwich and retrieved a cold Gatorade from the fridge to take to the outdoor seating. I munched my lunch while watching the others order enormous quantities of food for packing out.

The next stop was Little Harbor, another campground that Songbird and I passed over in favor of the longer, complete thru-hike. But Anne, Pete, and Mat were all stopping here for the night. They had added snorkeling in the bay to their itinerary: an ambitious plan given the time, especially for Songbird who intended to do the full thru with me.

Songbird and I picked up speed, pulling far ahead of the others, cruising down the long drop into Little Harbor without stopping. I watched the landscape open to reveal the sea and the harbor far below.

 

We were hoping to get to Little Harbor so Songbird could have time to use her (expensive) rental snorkel gear and leave with enough time to hike the 5.5 remaining miles to Two Harbors campground. But when we arrived at the mouth of the extremely large, extremely bougie Little Harbor campground, she realized she hadn’t told the others what campsite number to look for. If we went to the site – which was at least a quarter mile road walk – they’d never be able to find us.

“Shoot,” Songbird grumbled after checking her phone in the vain hope of cell signal. “I guess we’d better wait for ’em.” She removed her shoes and stretched while I pulled out my camp stove and made some mac and cheese, fueling up for the remaining push.

Everyone showed up about fifteen minutes later, tiny dots descending the mountain. Songbird left to meet up with them and walk them to the campsite. I briefly considered splitting then and there, but I wanted to touch the Pacific Ocean, something I’d never done. So I finished boiling my water, poured it into my mac and cheese pack, and took off off in pursuit. I grabbed Songbird’s hiking poles which she’d forgotten. It didn’t take long to catch up. I said Songbird’s name a comedic number of times before she realized I was holding her poles.

The Joy of Alone

All this time, the sky had been turning from a pleasant blue to a steely gray. Then it began to drizzle. We followed another dirt road up to the offshoot camp of Little Harbor. It was right beside the sea – on the sand. Jealously momentarily shot through me; this place was a camping dream. While the others located their snorkeling gear, I picked through giant piles of seaweed to walk out to the surf. In the gray light and the mist, it was hard to tell sea from sky. They blended into an infinite, solemn whole, a murky void that devoured the horizon.

Returning to the campsite, I checked that my mac and cheese was done rehydrating. I shoveled it down as quickly as possible, in a hurry to get moving.

On the roadwalk back to the trail, the drizzle came down harder. I stopped to hurriedly dump the contents of my pack so I could line the interior with the oversized trash bag Songbird gave me the other day. Using trash bags as a liner against the rain was an old trick that had saved my gear a few times on the Appalachian Trail. I stuffed everything back in and clipped on my pack before heading out. I’d kept my camera dangling at my shoulder, but I was soon forced to stop again to nestle it into the protection of my pack.

Even though the situation wasn’t ideal, as I walked away from Little Harbor, I felt suddenly ten pounds lighter. I enjoyed everyone’s company, but I was reminded of the pure and uninhibited bliss that comes from hiking alone. No one to stop and ask for a break. No one to think about. There was strange, unbridled freedom in walking among my own company down an empty road. I was grateful to have this time to myself.

Gathering Storm

I approached the turnoff sign, where the TCT veered off the road and became an actual trail again – and a trail that climbed up a mountain that was becoming swallowed by clouds.

As I ascended, the rain would switch on then off. Each time it slowed, I stopped to grab my camera and take pictures of the insanely pretty climb: the cactus peeking through the scrubby sage, the ocean and Little Harbor in the distance. But digging out my camera for photos seemed to invite the rain to come down harder. So I’d have to stop again and return the camera to my pack.

I’ve never hiked the southern portion of the AT, but I climbed up and over what I imagined were similar to the balds that rolled through the southern Appalachians: round-ish hills clear of any trees. And still I climbed higher, the trail pitching relentlessly up. The higher I went, the harder the rain fell. It was becoming a biting chill thanks to the wind that was kicking up. I felt myself grinning wildly, something feral enthralled by the wind and the rain, the swirling clouds, the borderline danger.

Bring. It. On. And it did.

A Grim Resolve

I plowed upwards through clouds racing across the ridgeline while rain lashed my face. If I stopped and turned, I could watch droplets of mist spinning in the wind.

By the time I made it to the top of the balds’ ridge, it was a true whiteout. The clouds had closed in until it was like walking through a white, blank room. I peered over the edge to my left and could see nothing but white, even though I knew the sea was a dizzying drop below. I heard the crashing waves but couldn’t see them. The effect was disorienting and spooky. I shook my head and continued on.

That’s when the trail got steep. Stupid steep. Steeper than before, only now it was studded with large, slick rocks. I grinned again, despite my huffing and puffing, the first time on the Trans Catalina Trail where I struggled so hard for breath. This felt like the AT.

At this point I had only two concerns. I was worried the darkness would come, and when that happened, the temperatures would plummet. I kicked it into high gear, not wanting to be stuck on this ridge when it got cold.

I was also paranoid about the bison, this morning’s encounter playing on loop in my mind. Now that I was firmly on the ridgeline, the trail flattened out again to a narrow dirt path. I glanced down at the fresh bison tracks in the soft mud. Thanks to the whiteout, visibility was reduced to just a few feet. I swallowed hard. The possibility of stumbling upon a bison and startling it was a very real threat.

I looked left and right at the barren landscape, the delapitated fences and cactus studded fields around me. On my left, I could tell there was a bit of a lip to the ledge before the straight drop to the ocean, hundreds of feet below. I resolved grimly that if I startled a bison and it charged, I would jump over that ledge and lay flat.

Overall, I hauled ass, trying to beat the falling dark that would come fast in the cloud cover. I had no idea if the rain would be this bad the entire way down.

But as soon as I began to drop vert, I fell below the cloud line and suddenly, the landscape revealed itself, vast and sprawling. In the distance to the right, I could see the sea again, buildings speckling the shore: the town of Two Harbors. Most importantly, the cold rain stopped the moment I dropped out of the clouds.

Well, that solves that.

Falling Into Town

I scurried down the descent, pleased with myself and my little misadventure. I was looking forward to setting up camp hours earlier than expected and waiting for Songbird. I was just starting to fantasize about meandering through the town, maybe grabbing a bite to eat, when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Songbird.

“Are you okay?” Her worried text demanded. Puzzled, I replied that I was, that I’d just descended from the worst of the ridge. “It’s cold and muddy, but if you’re quick, you’ll be fine.” I knew she was a strong hiker. I wasn’t too concerned about her ability to navigate the ridge safely.

Then I learned I didn’t need to worry.

“I’m already at the campground. Long story. Tell you soon.”

Intrigued, I scurried down the wide dirt road as fast as I dared..a task made treacherous by the incredibly sticky mud. It would clot up beneath my shoes until they became several inches of mud balls, round and unstable, perfect for rolling an ankle.

Trying to kick the mud off didn’t work. Nor did scraping it. I finally learned the best way to deal with it was to let the mud sheer off under its own weight. It was awkward and haphazard, more like falling all the way into town than walking into it.

When I stepped into the tiny town of Two Harbors, Songbird called me. We met up on the walk towards the campsite where we grabbed each other in a hug, laughing.

“Thank God you’re okay!”

I grinned. “It wasn’t that bad. How’d you get here anyway?”

“I got a ride!” she said. “When I was heading up to meet you, a ranger stopped me. He pointed at the ridge and said it was covered in clouds. ‘You see that?’ he said. ‘You aren’t going up there.'”

I winced a little, glad I managed to not only hike the ridge, but that I managed it in one piece.

She went on to explain that a kindly woman offered to give her a ride to the campground when she told the woman she was worried about me. We continued to compare notes on our separate misadventures, pitching camp and making dinner by the light of our headlamps. Warmed by the glow of conversation and company, I decided that although hiking alone was refreshing, it was hard to beat the concern of a friend.