Entries RSS(Editor’s Note: Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access. As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)
It started with High Octane, Chick Magnet, and Bobcat. I had not seen another hiker for days and all of the sudden there they were. Trudging up the hill ahead with worn packs and trekking pole
Every year, because of the small weather window, most PCT thru-hikers end up clumped together in what is known as “the herd.” They start in late April to avoid the worst of the desert heat and finish before the snow comes to Washington’s mountains in the fall. Along the way a tight community forms and as a part of that community you are given a trail name. While I was on the Appalachian Trail I was given the trail name Lost because . . . well, lets just say that the trial took a turn and I didn’t. I decided to keep the name mostly for sentimental reasons. Since I had started about half a month after most hikers, it took me until Agua Dulce to catch up. Hiking alone has its advantages. It allows you to travel at your own pace, take breaks whenever you want, and think. Nearly three weeks of hiking alone had been more than enough time to think and I was very ready to be part of this “herd.”
After the first 500 miles of desert, the Pacific Crest Trail dives into the Mojave. The name alone is enough to intimidate a person. I had heard horror stories about dehydration, heat stroke, and getting lost on that forsaken stretch of trail and was more than a little nervous as I approached it. The first glimpse of the Mojave is from the surrounding hills. You can see the heat shimmering off its floor and a flat, endless stretch of dirt. On the morning that I was supposed to reach the desert floor, my pack felt unusually damp against my back. I ignored it at first but then my back kept getting more and more wet. I could not believe that I was sweating that profusely, so I finally took off my pack to see what on earth was going on. My Platypus had a hole in it and half a liter of water had leaked out. The most difficult stretch of the Mojave Desert was 4 miles away, and there was a hole in my platypus. Luckily, one of the kindest human beings on earth was also only 4 miles away in a place he named “Hikertown.”
When I reached Hikertown I thought I must be in the wrong place. A long row of small buildings decorated with a western theme stretched out before me. I was about to turn around and check the guidebook’s directions again, but then a man appeared and started walking towards me. “Welcome” he said eagerly and quickly ushered me into the little piece of heaven that Hikertown is. He showed me where I could get water, shower, sleep, and then took me to a final building where four other hikers were already hanging out watching TV. About 10 minutes later the owner of Hikertown let me and a couple of other hikers take his car to the nearest store where I was able to resolve my water problems. Despite all that they do for hikers, the owners of this place do not charge a cent.
Later that day I entered the aqueduct section of the Mojave with a full stomach and a little more confidence than before. Two sand and heat filled days later I was standing at Willow Springs road, hitching into the last official town in the desert, appropriately called: Mojave.
