Feral Dogs, Freezer Pizza and Fear Mongering: A Start to the PCT

Within the first week, my trekking pole was lost in the back of a cop car, my inner thighs were on fire from heat rash and I had two blisters forming on the insides of my feet. I wanted to quit. I still want to quit sometimes. Just every time I get hungry. But then I eat a Payday, stretch my sore Achilles and keep walking.

The Beginning

8 days ago, I walked towards the southern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail with my partner, Lovechild. (The two of us had met on the AT and thru-hiked the rest of it together the year prior.) The first trail marker I touched was cool and dewy, condensation leaving trails on my fingertips. The small dark pine tree stood solo in a triangle of blue. I looked upwards and saw the terminus for the first time. There was no turning back now.

On the first few days on trail, the landscape was unlike anything I had seen before. I felt out of place. Rusty orange flowers bloomed on the edges of trail. Cacti extended spikes out onto the corners of switchbacks. Hummingbirds buzzed in and out of sight. Shrubs scratched the skin off your legs. The trail itself was gradual and meandering — a pleasant surprise. However, in the heat of day, gradual and meandering means jack.

I gradually started to feel like a thru-hiker again. During sunset at oraflame canyon, golden light illuminating the silhouettes of hikers on the edge of a smooth sun-bleached rock. Talking about mileage with Lovechild in a trailside cave. Leapfrogging other hikers. The trail steadily becoming a stream of familiar faces. Packs lined up outside Mom’s Apple Pie in Julian. Crouching to take photos of lizards before they skittered away into the brush. My Achilles stiffening with familiar pain from the miles…

The Physical Adjustment

It’s been difficult to like the desert. With the gradual inclines, I expected to be able to do more miles, but my feet and Achilles have ached as badly as they did at the start of the AT. I find myself hobbling down trail again sometimes, with Lovechild’s encouragement behind me. Sometimes, I’ll just dump out a liter of water to make my pack lighter and deal with my decision.

We’ve both developed an array of blisters on our feet. Lovechild’s are in between his toes (a pair of injinis are in his future) and mine have formed on the bunions of both my feet. Somehow, by taping one of them, the tape rolled up and it actually created another blister. Go figure!

Heat rash has exploded all over my inner thighs. It itches worse than mosquito bites and starts to burn if you don’t wash it off. I restrained myself from itching it for most of the day — but when we finally made it to a water cache after a fifteen mile water carry — I broke down and scratched the hell out of it. The rash spread all the way down to my ankles and I had to clean it off with some of my water. Lesson learned (until it starts itching again.)

My ass has resumed its regular schedule of chafing as it seems to have on all long trails. Everything is made worse by the heat and sand. My poop has not been solid for over a week. Sometimes I’ll squat to pee and just start shitting everywhere. It makes things exciting. I don’t feel ill — so I have no idea what’s going on!

I’ve also had to adjust to using a bidet in the desert (as my trail name Shitwater suggests.) It hasn’t been that big of a deal — I just travel 200 or more feet away from wherever I’m grabbing water and use my bidet. No toilet paper needed! I’ve only had to use rocks a few times. (Which work surprisingly well, would recommend.)

Feral Dogs: Oh Boy!

Most recently — we camped a half a mile after Little Bear Hostel, only to discover another Farout comment about a pack of feral dogs that drove a hiker out of their campsite. We’d seen a dead dog on the side of the road — grotesquely bloated with its legs stuck out and flies buzzing around its eyes. The dog was completely gone when we walked back up to trail from the hostel. WTF!

Lovechild when he can’t sleep because I wake him up about dogs.

These thoughts did not settle me as I laid down to sleep in our cowboy camp set up. Just as I closed my eyes — the sound of howling dogs erupted from the woods. I turned to Lovechild and shook him, whispering “Do you hear that?!… the dogs!!” The first time they sounded like they were a few miles off, so I rolled over and went back to sleep. The next time, the sounded closer. I rolled over again to Lovechild, shook him awake and hissed, “They’re closer!!!! The dogs!!!!” About every thirty minutes this would happen. So, as any person would when they’re being woken up by their partner, wide-eyed with panic and shaking them about feral dogs coming closer — Lovechild did not sleep much. This hike so far has mostly taught us how to push on with zero sleep. 

Water is Heavy: Shocker

Shocking news: the water carries in the desert suck. More recently, we haven’t been able to base our mileage around how much my feet hurt. We have to base it around water. At the giant steel water tower at Mike’s Place it was a stark realization. Even though my feet hurt badly and I was starting to hobble, if we were going to make it through the next fifteen mile water carry — we needed to do a couple more miles that night in order to make the next day easier. With a full four liter water carry.

This water was so tasty; shoutout my Sawyer filter!!

I’m sure this won’t seem as bad in the future — but with my body just starting to adjust to trail, staring down the throat of a fifteen mile water carry when I can barely do thirteen miles before my feet seize up is nothing short of unnerving. Every time, I find I can do things that I didn’t think I could. My body adapts and so does my mind. Even on my second thru-hike, I still surprise myself.

HANGRY HIKER

Most importantly — I need to eat routinely as I’m walking, otherwise I lose all motivation and want to curl under a shrub and give up. Lovechild has witnessed this several times. One of the most memorable times was when we were headed down to Little Bear Hostel to get more water after a 15 mile carry. I hadn’t eaten lunch (a recipe for disaster). I had been looking forward to the freezer pizza the hostel offers, thinking about it with every step. I was so hungry I felt nauseous and was starting to say things like “What are we even doing out here?” and “Hiking is stupid.” and “I literally can’t do this climb; I just can’t do it.” Bad signs. 

We got to the start of the side trail to the hostel and realized it looked like somebody put the Appalachian Trail in the middle of the desert. Rock climbs and loose sand stretched out for .5 miles before us — but when I’m hungry .5 miles seems like a marathon. We got into the middle of the descent when Lovechild said, “Shitwater, I really don’t want to do this climb down. We already went through this on the AT. I don’t want to do it again — let’s just push on to the next water at Paradise Valley Cafe. I don’t think all this is worth it for a freezer pizza.”

This did not go over well. “NO PIZZA????!!!” I roared and sat on a rock with my head in my hands like a 23-year-old toddler. I was so hungry I was about to eat him if we didn’t go down and get pizza. 

So, after realizing that PVC was not an attainable distance away from the hostel for a hangry hiker, we went down the rest of the way to eat and grab water from the hostel. Sometimes, when you feel like the world is ending, you really just need a freezer pizza.

Getting used to the West

Even with one thru-hike done, I’m still making rookie mistakes. I was so excited to hitch into Julian that I left my trekking pole on the highway patroller officer’s car. The realization came to me as I walked to get a free slice of pie from Mom’s — and I started crying. Openly. (I was overly hungry again.) While I walked around Julian. I was too tired to care. It wasn’t just that I wasn’t going to be able to set up my tent now — the trekking poles were given to me by one of my best friends from Virginia.

I realized I missed all my friends. I missed the Appalachian Mountains. I missed all the hikers I walked with and joked with on the AT. Now I was in some random town in Southern California and it all felt so different. And I was sad that the PCT was different — even though I had told myself not to expect it to be the same.

Not many people talk about how it can be difficult to transition to a new thru-hike after you’ve finished one in the past. I started comparing everything to the AT — when the two trails are entirely different. I was nostalgic for the AT whenever something unfortunate happened, like losing my trekking pole. (Even though plenty of unfortunate things happened on the AT.) I didn’t have the same attachment to it as I did the AT since I’ve always lived about thirty minutes from the Appalachians.

This is my first year out West — everything seems huge, strange and unfamiliar. The only thing I recognized at first was walking and hiker trash. But, as with every long trail, the more time I spend out here, the more hikers become friends. After collapsing into another town from an ill timed twenty and fifteen miler through a blow down section — I was relieved to see familiar faces in town.

Mel and Ava, who offered me strawberries at the Mount Laguna campground, now sat on their bed and listened to Big Thief while Lovechild and I recalled unhinged trail stories. Ferdinand, who I met at the El Cajon bus station before I even started trail, let us stay in his hotel room. Alex and Lisette, who joined us for dinner at the Mount Laguna campground now joined us all for dinner at a brewery. Sitting at the table with everyone, I realized the west felt less unfamiliar when I was surrounded by friends. The only thing I had to do was keep walking. I couldn’t be nostalgic for this trail yet since I just started it. I had to give it time. Someday I knew I’d look back on these memories and miss them. But for now — I have to enjoy being in them.