There is a famous stretch of road called Highway 2 that runs through the San Gabriel mountains in Southern California. There is a significant portion that has been closed to all motor vehicles for the past 10 months due to extensive damage from the 2022/2023 winter season. The PCT runs parallel to the highway for about 11 miles, and in those 11 miles is a huge burn area that has given birth to a tremendous expanse of the highly toxic Poodle Dog Bush that has overgrown the trail, as well as a section of the trail that is closed to protect an endangered frog species. Furthermore, I am uniquely enthralled with abandoned human spaces. So, naturally, I walked 11 miles on a high-elevation abandoned highway winding through a stunningly forested mountain range.

It should be noted that when I did this road walk, it fell within a 48 hour stretch of seeing not a single other human being.

Suffice it to say, it was one of the coolest experiences of my life.

When the trail first bisected the highway, I was greeted by a parking lot largely occupied by a toppled telephone pole. It was laying dispiritedly across the white parking stripes, twisted power lines laying in a tangled mess beneath it. The early morning light cast long shadows on the nearby informational vista sign, the trail maps and warning missives about mountain lions sun-bleached and curling from long-neglect, shouting their educational material out to no one. There was a deep sense of emptiness, the thrumming veracity that only PCT hikers and construction workers had been in proximity to this popular tourist destination for nearly a year.

I made my way over to the bear-proof trash cans, getting to engage in one of the most exciting treats available to long-distance hikers: throwing out your carried food garbage before you get to a town. Imagine having to carry all of your trash with you, on your back, for a week. Now imagine that you get a chance to chuck it early. Some people love massages and some people love decadent chocolate cake. Me, I love a mid-journey garbage can. I know, my fanciness is intoxicating.

Pack satisfyingly lighter, my feet propelled me forward into my own version of Stephen King’s The Stand. The first thing I passed was the ghost town of a summer camp, its sign gently creaking in the wind, the painted-on letters half-peeled away. It took every fiber of willpower I have to resist the urge to trespass and explore further, but I gave my feet a stern talking-to and instead continued on.

I walked and danced for miles down the center line, the yellow path curving its way up through the craggy wilderness of the mountains. At some point I came around a corner between two huge crags, and a murder of at least 40 huge ravens burst into flight away from something unspeakable and long-dead on the road. They shrieked and burbled as they filled the highway around me, the sun reflecting brilliantly on their glossy black wings. My form was momentarily lost in a whirlwind of ravens, and time seemed to slow just for me. I like to imagine that, had there been anyone around to see it, I would have appeared as a sorcerer, giant raven familiars bursting forth from between dimensions as I fractured my way into this temporal reality. But, as there was no one around, I stepped gingerly around the Dead Thing and made my way on down the road.

The road took me through a long tunnel, wind funneling through it and accompanying my (very necessary) echoing solo karaoke party. I spent longer than I needed to in the tunnel, dropping my pack and twirling around. I even attempted a few cartwheels, which I haven’t done since I was 11, and now can say with happy confidence that it is very much a skill that I do not possess.

Once I rejoined the trail after a gorgeous day, I passed through a totally burned forest of trees that were so burned as to lack any definable features. It felt like passing between thick clusters of tree-shaped voids in reality. I got to a campsite called Little Jimmy Creek Campsite, that was totally empty except for two deeply creepy half-destroyed and shredded abandoned tents. I set up my tent up on a hill as far away from the scene as I could, while still being sheltered from the wind.

At around 8pm, just as I was about to exit my tent for my historically epic before-sleep pee, the night silence was broken by the unmistakably loud snap of a large limb being ripped off of a tree. I froze in place, my fingers curled on the upper edge of my sleeping bag that I had pulled up over my nose, my eyes wide and unblinking. It distantly occurred to me that I was the perfect, comical image of a child in their bed afraid of a monster in the closet. I would have found it funny if I wasn’t quite literally devoting all of my energy to holding perfectly still (and also not peeing my pants). I felt exceptionally grateful that I hadn’t yet turned on my headlamp, as it kept my tent invisible in the pitch dark.

For the next 20 minutes I listened to the random shuffling, loud snapping sounds coming from the bottom of the hill. I breathed so shallowly that my sleeping bag didn’t even crinkle with my rising and falling chest. Horrifyingly, the full moon had started to rise, bathing my tent in its gleam. I listened intently to the sounds, completely unable to figure out if it was a person, a bear or a mountain lion. My exceptionally full bladder was screaming at me, all of the alarm bells going off in my body that we needed to get up and go now, large clawed predator be damned. I was shaking like a leaf, more scared than I’ve ever been in my life.

Then the thing belched.

I let out my breath in a whoosh and tumbled out of my tent, sprinting away from it into the night to relieve my bladder. As I walked back to my tent, I glanced down into the valley and saw a headlamp dancing around from within one of the destroyed tents. I also realized that there was no campfire, and that the loud wood cracking sounds I’d heard had no discernable purpose. I blinked down at the odd scene, dimly aware that this was perhaps even more terrifying than a bear. I slipped quietly back into my tent and fell into a fitful sleep, my Garmin inReach clutched against my chest like a teddy bear, my thumb hovering over the SOS button.

In the morning I woke to a world of roaring wind and 20 degrees Farenheit. I waited until the sun was up then packed my bag from within my tent, having to stop multiple times to jam my hands into my armpits as my fingers kept going completely numb, fumbling and dropping my few possessions over and over again. Once I had everything packed up I quietly made my way back to the trail. I passed within eyeline of the creepy tents, and if there was a person in one of them it was impossible to tell. They both stood silent and motionless, in the same state of total disrepair and half-collapse that they’d been the night before. I slowly crept out of the campsite, full-on Shaggy from Scooby-Doo style, half leaned back with my feet stepping forward as quietly as possible. I’ll never know what I witnessed the night before, but I can say that I was glad to be on my way.

Little did I know that I was hiking into a full-blown Santa Ana wind. Here is the weather warning I found, after hiking a full day through it to stagger out at Wrightwood:

This is exactly where I was – at 9,000 ft above sea level.

For most of the day the wind was howling directly into my face. Every step up the extremely steep climb up Mount Baden-Powell felt like pushing my legs through molasses. I had to dig my hiking poles in with all of my strength, my body like a sail threatening to be shredded. There were 2 brief times where the trail turned a switchback so the wind was coming from behind me, and both times the wind violently threw me to a knee, bruising one kneecap then the other, and making me look as though I was very aggressively trying to ask the trail to marry me.

It also continued to hover around 20 degrees, and I was forced to hike with all of my months-long accumulated strength to keep my body warm enough to prevent my hands from turning to frozen, immovable bricks. When I stopped to collect water, the spring was blessedly flowing, but where it hit the rocks below the leaves were encased in a thick armor of ice.

Nature really loves the melodrama.

I did make it to the peak at 9,407ft, and met some truly rad folks on my way down the other side, including Breezy, a lovely human currently doing training runs for her Kilimanjaro attempt later this year.

After one of the hardest hiking days of my life, I found Toasty at the road and fell weeping into his arms. I felt so proud, and so tired, and so ready for a sandwich.

The earlier parts of this section were much more peaceful. The trail took me straight through the center of a tiny town called Agua Dulce, where I had lunch with Toasty. Toasty subsequently hiked out a mile with me to see the alien landscape of Vasquez Rocks before bidding me adieu and turning around. I had the privilege of hiking a day with an excellent human named Aquaman, chatting about life the universe and everything as we hiked. We met a caretaker of a section of the trail named Todd, who gave us cokes and oreos, and shared his knowledge through the most gloriously gigantic beard I’ve ever seen. He keeps a pit toilet available for hikers, which is lovely. While using it, when I pulled the toilet paper, a Black Widow Spider darted out from where it had been hiding in the cardboard tube and skittered up onto another roll. Fair warning, there’s a photo of the gorgeous wee beast in the photo section.

I split off from Aquaman late afternoon to camp, as he is on a time schedule and is trying to crush 25 miles per day until the end (can’t relate, but mad props). At that campsite I found a pair of Southbound Frenchmen named Ça Va and Pieu who had met 500 miles into the trail and had been hiking together ever since. Pieu made a fire and we joyfully chatted until the sun was long-disappeared. Joscha, my pal from Hiker Town, also showed up and camped with us! It was a true delight.

The only other event of note was one night, after I’d set up camp at an established site just a few feet off trail and was eating dinner, 3 dirtbikers came hurtling out of the darkness. It was in a section where there are nearby dirtbike trails, but you can’t get onto the PCT by accident; there are metal gates with large NO MOTORIZED VEHICLES signs that you’d have to literally lift your bike over to get onto the PCT. Here’s an example of one:

So, needless to say, I was horrified and enraged at the entitlement of these 3 dudes dirtbiking down the PCT at night, when most hikers hike. They could quite literally kill someone.

2 of them flew past my tent, but the last one stalled out just a few feet away from me. I stood up stared at him. He stared back.

“This is a hiking trail,” I stated flatly.

He gave me the dirtiest, most threatening look I’ve ever been on the receiving end of. I was suddenly VERY aware of how alone I was. I narrowed my eyes back at him, not wanting to show weakness but also not wanting to fully engage. After a moment of stalemate silence he snarled at me,

“Yeah. I got it.”

Then he took off past me, and tried to get up the hill that his friends had gone up. About halfway up his bike stalled, and he had to waddle up a few steps, and, unable to get traction, tipped his bike. I giggled satisfyingly to myself (wonderfully, there is video of this in the video section below). Then, even more gratifying, I heard him say to his buddy at the top of the hill,

“Oh god this is so embarassing. And in front of the hiker.”

I’m sure he didn’t realize that his voice carried to me. It was marvelous. Nasty little men getting their comeuppance and all that.

Tomorrow is Halloween, my most favorite holiday. I do have a costume, and I fully intend to hike the whole day in it. No spoilers, but I will say, it’s made of spandex, and I’m sure by the end of the day I will smell HORRIBLE. Worth it!

Love,

Thresher

P.S.

I stumbled across 3 trail angels who gave me (coincidentally dairy-free!) pastries, let me warm up by their fire, and let me snuggle their dog Cooper. They love PCT hikers, but want folks to only ever find them by happenstance, to keep the magic. So, I’m putting the photos at the end so as to obscure where they were along this section.