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In the Beginning Campo to Lake Morena - April 27 & 28
All morning had been a flurry of activity and people. The ride to the Portland airport on a cool damp April morning. Then crammed in a plane full of people for the three hour flight to San Diego. Finally the drive here to the monument. After six months of planning, wishing and dreaming, it was hard to believe I was finally here. Still what strikes me the most about standing at the southern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail, isn't the monument. It's the twelve foot tall wall of corrugated steel standing some two dozen feet south of the monument. Running to the horizons in the East and West, it demarks the true boarder between the US and Mexico.
Fear prevents me from attempting to venture across that road to try and poke a toe through the fence. When we first arrived at the monument, a couple of patrol vehicles were sitting a few feet away. Their occupants obviously intent on discussing the latest bust or similar topic of interest. We said hi, in the process, declaring our nationality and right to be here. Even so the whole affair left me unsettled. What an immense contrast this border is in relationship to the trail. A trail that represents, to many, the ultimate in freedom. Yet here a the start of symbol of freedom lies a wall designed to restrict freedom. Some 2650 winding trail miles to the north stands the Canadian border. Unlike this place, the Canadian border is ten yard wide clear cut that undulates it's way across endless ridges along the 45th parallel. No walls, no patrols, no motion detectors and most important no fear. Just a friendly sign welcoming hikers to Canada. Why aren't there walls to keep those hokey loving Canadians out? Is it because, for the most part, they talk, look, act and think like us? The trail gives us time to think about issues like this. So for the next few weeks as I wandered through Southern California, my mind would travel back to those first few moments on the trail and ponder some deeper meaning.
For now the adrenalin and impatience from months of waiting were in control. So despite the heat I pushed on. After four miles, I stopped to rest in the shade of some trees growing by a shallow stream. Its waters were tepid and quite unappealing. I was glad I'd packed two gallons from the border. I tried to eat one of those balanced energy bars that the commercials say are so good for you. The effort was more an excuse to force myself linger a little longer than to stave off any hunger. Halfway through it, I couldn't stomach the chalky unappetizing taste and chucked it off into the desert. Maybe some desperate creature would find it more appealing.
Still fearful of any chance encounter with some illegal, I headed off the trail into the chaparral in search of home for the night. The reward for my fear was foot long gash in the back of my calf. Wounded and in pain, I collapsed in a small clearing safe in my fort of natural eight foot tall bushes. The days heavy activity had completely suppressed my normally healthy appetite. So I climbed into bed without bothering to cook my dinner. Fourteen miles of hiking over seven hours. Not good, not bad but a beginning. Next morning I crawled out of bed and started hiking when just light enough to see. By 6:30 I'd made it down to Hauser Canyon where I ran into the group that had started from the border just a few hours before me. An Englishman, Ray Riches, was packed and ready to go, so the two of us headed up the long climb out of the canyon. Ray had been planning his thru-hike for about two years. Initially the idea to hike the PCT was launched by a group of his sons friends. Ray's involvement was an afterthought. As is often the case, over the course of planning, everyone dropped out but him. His own son was the last to drop out. Just a month before the departure date, with his new wife is expecting a baby. With all of the work he'd already done to get ready, Ray wasn't about to let that stop him. What's really interesting is that Ray has never camped before, let alone backpacked. Having done a fair amount myself, I can only wonder what he must be thinking. It can surely be a daunting prospect to face this trail. It'll be another couple of weeks before I'll get my trail legs. We managed to climb the hill and reach our destination of the day at Lake Moreno by 8:30. For the next couple of days we'd attending the ADZPCTKO, which stands for the Annual Day Zero Pacific Crest Trail Kick Off. It's a kickoff party held each year to celebrate the start of the PCT hiking season. Some 60 to 70 thru-hikers will be here along with numerous well wishers.  The kickoff allows hikers to meet potential partners, learn some tricks for getting through the desert, and find out where the water sources are. With all the hikers, we get a look a wide variety of new equipment. Much of it is homemade. | ||
Copyright (C) 1999...2001 Ron "Fallingwater" Moak |
It was 12:00 noon as I stand alone at the terminus monument. It's hot and I'm already beginning to sweat and I haven't even walked ten yards. For a few moments I watch rooster tails trailing behind Charlie Jones rig as he sped off down the dirt road back to San Diego. He'd been kind enough to haul me out to the start of the trail from airport. 
Separating me and the border is a "No Man's Land". A road that runs parallel to the wall and patrolled by countless Border Patrol officers. They drive along it dragging a raft of tires chained together. A contraption designed to even out the dirt so that foot prints are easier to spot. 
I took one last look around, shouldered my pack and headed north into the unknown. So thorough had my preparations for this journey been, that I knew that the best course of action was to hike a ways, find a nice shady tree and sit out the heat of the day. After all, hiking under a burning sun in 100 degree heat is not considered wise. 
Climbing Hauser Mountain the heat and lack of food were taking their toll. On each switchback, I'd stop and rest for a moment or two. I'd hoped to make it to Hauser Canyon for the night, but clearly that was not to be.