Day 36: Mile 415.2 - 433.1

And in the morning, when I woke, I felt again like a thru-hiker, and the jitters of yesterday were now fully of yesterday. And I finished hiking the part of the trail near Mount Pacifico that I had done earlier this year--although I had been going up then, but was going down now--all the way to the Mill Creek Fire Station. And it felt shorter than last time. Maybe it was because it was downhill, maybe it was because there wasn't any snow. Or maybe it was a case of "going there it's always longer, coming back it's always shorter". Why is that? Is it the familiarity--and I was certainly familiar with the trail here: here was that corner where the plants hadn't yet overgrown and you could see the weird rock slants, here was where Ian and I stopped to put on our microspikes, here was that runoff channel that had looked so magnificient in the morning sun last time, but was just in shadow now. Or is it the certainty--because I was certain of what was at the Fire Station, the picnic tables, the bathrooms, even the water spout. Well, whatever it was, it felt like coming back, and went by quickly.

I stopped at the picnic table above the fire station and ate breakfast, and soon was joined by other hikers. And there was Michael Be, who had camped near me last night, and Nikki and Sebastian (who I finally recognized as the couple who camped in the streambed with me back at the Water Faucet at the bottom of San Jacinto!), and then even Candy Corn (who I hadn't seen since Big Bear, where we went split-zes on a box of IV Hydration packets). A regular reunion! And there was trail magic too: a cooler filled with iced cans of soda. And we sat and we jawed, about footwear (of the "what didn't work and what now is working" variety common amongst thru-hikers), about COVID (since I'd gotten my second shot recently), about the next water source (while we filtered the water from *this* source). The usual hiker topics--there was even some talk of food (Sebastian "Yardsale" has a thing for candy: he had a big bag of fun-size Snickers, enough that Michael B asked, is this some sort of strange Halloween?).

And in the noontide, I walked the trail with Michael Be, and we talked. I had first seen Michael Be back before Big Bear, at Arrastre Campground, where he was talking with Cookie. Turns out he knows Cookie--Cookie had been the impetus for his getting on trail, and acted as his trail mentor for the first bit. Michael Be lives an interesting life: he's never lived in the same place for more than 2 years his entire life, but he's also lived in San Diego 5 times and now owns property there--he keeps coming back to that town. He also runs festivals, including a full moon festival coming up in June. He sees the PCT as marking an inflection point: he recently got on solid financial footing, and now the PCT is his chance to get on solid physical footing (i.e., to get in shape--2600+ miles of walking will do that), and also emotional footing (i.e., to get over any lingering COVID depressions). And I think a lot of people see the PCT like that, a chance to change some things they've been meaning to. I have my own thoughts on the PCT and the change it entails, but my soapbox is still in its crate over there and I'm too lazy to get it out so it'll have to wait.

But talking with Michael Be was fun. He knew the real estate market well, knew the trends in both the residential (how prices are going up in suburban and rural areas as people realize, wait, I can work from home?, I don't need to be this close to the office?, well, screw this!) and commercial (prices falling through the floor as companies liquidate in favor of work-from-home) markets. We also discussed plants, and how root systems are connected, and some new research on how different trees "talk" to each other through their root systems, and can even shuffle nutrients back and forth. Between the pragmatism of real estate, the erudition of botany, and his healthy appreciation for innovation in technology (a whole other discussion we had regarding ARM processors and Apple), well, it was a pretty lively little discussion as we pushed through the brush of the trail.

Eventually Michael Be stopped to take a break and I opted to continue on. And so it was that in the afternoon, I walked alone, following the trail as it rode the high hills overlooking Antelope Valley to the north. And in the waning light the hills on the opposite side of Antelope Valley came alive, every gorge and canyon and cranny thrown in sharp relief by shadow and shine, and below, the green streak of Antelope Valley itself riding out to the west. And at one point I looked out over those hills, to the hills behind that, and then to the hills behind that, and I saw a peak, far far away, blue hazed from the distance, and I pulled out Peak Finder, and Peak Finder said it was Mount Tehachapi. Hmm, the town of Techachapi is where I plan to be about a week from now, it must be around there. And I looked at that distance, and I may have been Foolish, but much like on a day-hike when you look up at some impossible peak and think, yeah, I can make it up there, I looked out over that impossible distance and thought, yeah, I can make that in a week. And I have no Basis for that, and I worry that I'm being Foolhardy or, worse, Arrogant, but, yeah, I can make that in a week.

But that kind of distance doesn't happen all in one day, so for today I came to a spot about 3 miles before from my aspirational camping spot at the North Fork Ranger Station, but it has been a Long Day, and the sun is Setting, and my feet are starting to Complain more vociferously, so I'm going to call it a day, ensconced here in this little channel to keep out of the wind. And that was the hike!

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Some notes:

-- Campsite > Mill Creek Fire Station > Messenger Flats > Campsite

-- Today I woke late. One of the things about civilized life is that I usually go to bed later: I think it's a combination of electric sunshine from the lighted bulb, and the fact that society condones it--Ralphs is open until 2am! But I still wake at the usual near sunrise. (Why were you up so early?, Ian had asked. Because it's bright out there, I had replied. But it's not bright *in* *here*, he had said, noting the drawn shades. Well--hmm, don't have a good response to that.) And because I'm now an old man, I can't sleep in. But that means, in town, I don't get as much sleep. Well last night I made camp early-ish, went to bed early-ish, and this morning I woke late-ish, likely to make that sleep debt less-ish. Would have liked to wake early and pull a full Ismael but, ah well, what can you do!

-- Today, when the trail would skew to the south side of the mountaintops, I would keep seeing Mount Lukens off in the distance, distinguished by its antenna farm, and I would be strangely comforted. I know three different ways to get to the top of that, I would think, so I know that peak pretty well, and these mountains are those mountains so by extension I know this place pretty well. And that strikes me as very human: to find a point, even far off, and latch onto it and say, ah, because that point is familiar, all this which is definitely foreign, is nonetheless also familiar. It's the beginnings of what I call an "in". The "in" is the way I begin any research in a new field: I need to find some aspect of that new field that appeals to the way my mind currently works, and once I have that in I can expand and understand and ultimately change my mind to work in the new way needed for this field. That's the growth part. But the beginnings are rooted in well-established patterns, in resonating with old, deeply comfortable modes, which for me personally usually means something more mathematical. The new may be revolutionary and groundbreaking, but for me it starts in the well-worn and well-trodden: in a very real way, there is nothing new under the sun, just steps in the sand until you look up and find yourself somewhere you've never been before. (There's a lesson in this somewhere, but it's been a long day and I'm too tired to make it coherent!)

-- And finally, something practical. After the Mill Creek Fire Station, the trail becomes a bit overgrown at times. But that's ok, I just push through it. But I push through with a *method*, which is a fancy way of saying, with a habit that maybe even works? Here's what I do: I use my poles, held vertically and thrust ahead, to push away higher branches, letting them flex back into me as necessary but still sweeping the branches away from at least my face. Barring that, I put up my dukes like I'm boxing, then lower my head between them, and push forward. I try to keep my eyes down: not only does this help me keep track of my footing and the trail, it keeps me from being distracted by all the branches. And I always *push* through: I don't turn or bob and weave to avoid because that's just asking for a twisted ankle. Even my feet: if there's overgrowth at calf level, then I'll sort of shuffle my feet forward so they more push through than step over. There are advanced versions of this method--I once hiked Chino Hills when the mustard was taller than me and so thick I was in the shade at mid-afternoon and could only see a few feet ahead, and I used my tripod, opened and upside down, to form a sort of prow with my head in the middle, and pushed through. (And another time I hiked Chino Hills where the mustard was even thicker, and I had to push through holding my backpack in front of me like a shield, even digging in my heels in some parts for extra power.) But the above are the basics for what I do. I should note that this method does lead me to bonking my head every now and again on thicker branches because I'm looking down so much, so improvements are certainly possible!