Day 1: Mile 0 - 8.8

And so it begins!

After a whirlwind 3 weeks of preparation, of resigning my position at Qualcomm, of cleaning up the apartment, and of (of course) preparing gear and food and planning for the PCT, finally, on this day, effectively time ran out, and it was time to go!

Dan drove me out the trailhead: we hadn't spoken in so long (let alone played) that there was plenty to occupy the 2+ hour drive. Maybe it was the conversation, but I didn't feel any excitement or anticipation, even towards the end. Instead, as we drove through Capo, just 2 miles from the southern terminus, it was Dan who exclaimed, "Man, I want to go!"  For me, I didn't feel much, likely because I was suppressing the adject terror that had started to blossom in the last week. But the drive there was reassuring in a way: driving through Campo I thought, I know this land. This is Cleveland National south of the 74: this is Rancho Capistrano, this is Deluz, this is so many places I've hiked for so long. I know this place; it can't be scary.

We got there, at the southern terminus, right next to the tall border wall, and after a minute or two, had it pretty much to ourselves. I got ready, my muscle memory of how to start a hike suddenly failing, but getting things together. And then, almost too quickly, a bit discombobulated but with nothing but to trust my preparation, I set out. 

At 12:54pm, I left the southern terminus, heading north.

At 1:06pm, I turned around and headed back to the terminus because I'd forgotten to sign the register.

At 1:16pm, I set out, this time for real.

Eh, if you're going to make mistakes, get them done earlier rather than later!

The Trail

The PCT starts very polite: a gentle downhill incline that wanders into Campo. Campo itself is reassuring: there are houses and doubtless people, so you aren't alone in the wilderness yet. From there, the trail winds and wends along the rolling hills, taking the circuitous way: at one point, I looked back at Campo between the hills and thought, man, if I had gone straight, I could have gotten here in half the miles! But, hey, if the trail takes the scenic route, then I take the scenic route. And the trail is pretty here: the ruminations of spring, the beginnings of blooms, patches of yellow and purple and white starting to peek out. Overall, this bit of trail is very mild, gradual enough and diverse enough that I would recommend it to anyone looking for a hike. You'll see the big boulders, you'll see the big trees dominating the riparian bits, and of course, you'll walk through the chapparal. All very southern California.

Plus, on this day the breeze blew often and generous, damping the heat; this may bias my evaluation.

At the end of the day, I bumped into Bob, trail name "Traveller" again. Bob had been the only other person starting out as late as me; he headed out maybe 15 minutes ahead. I saw him again around mile 8, looking for water. He had been told there was water at mile 9, so we went and looked together. After some wandering, and some sketchy interpretation of Guthooks comments, we eventually found ourselves off trail, heading downhill on a dirt road, looking for a pond near a windmill. (Aren't windmills supposed to be tall? Shouldn't we have seen it already? Nope, you won't see it until you're practically on top of it!) Bob got water, and we ended up taking dinner together under the stars: me with instant mashed potatoes, he with dehydrated lasgna and a tumbler of wine. Bob's an old hand at this stuff by now, and I tried my best to pick his brain for not only hiking tips (which he freely gave), but also for his approach to life. Bob isn't called "Traveller" for nothing: he's been to Alaska, to Belize, to the Himalayas; he's planning to go to Africa this summer. And all while he's worked as an engineer at JPL and now Aerospace Corporation. Hmm, so there *is* a way...

Next

Some Notes

- Less than a mile from the terminus, is PCT "Bace Camp", run by some folks there just helping hikers out. Giving advice, updating trail conditions, and offering free spaghetti in the evenings. I didn't stop, pasta notwithstanding, but I did talk to Serena, who led me through the "Magic of the PCT" practice, which involved delicately cupping that magic, then sprinkling it wherever needed. A bit too mystical for me, but I don't begrudge it: she gave it from a generous heart, without imposition, and I can't fault that. But some of what she said has proven more sticky. We pack our fears, she said, a common enough mantra, only she applied it to things like a tent, a sleeping bag. And that feels true, only in a way I don't yet understand: there's something there.

- I will say that, a few miles in, coming round yet another wend, I realized that, huh, this trip wasn't a mistake. In the middle of nowhere, with naught by myself and my pack, for a brief moment, I thought, I belong here. This feels right. Of course, I don't know what I'm getting myself into--I deliberately don't think of the 2650 miles because doing so only freaks me out. So who knows what I feel at mile pick-a-big-number. But know that here, at mile 3, I felt: I belong here.