After spending the night in the dirtbag hotel (a.k.a. our truck), we drove up to the southern monument of the Pacific Crest Trail. I've seen this monument a thousand times in pictures, but it was very surreal to be touching it in person.
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Our Airbnb we stayed at near Julian was interesting. Rodents sprinting around in the ceiling kept me from sleeping well. Even inside a house my nerves were still on edge from my last night on the trail.
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I awoke later than I wanted. I could hear Convict already packing everything up. I had torn a massive rip in my pant leg the day before and needed to spend some quality time with a needle, some thread, a dab of swearing, and a few band-aids.
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I knew I was confident on snow. I knew I was confident in the capabilities of my microspikes. I knew I could turn around.
I also knew what everyone was saying about Fuller Ridge. I knew people were skipping past it, lots of people. Probably three out of four hikers were avoiding the snow and going up snow-free trails to reconnect with the PCT after Fuller Ridge. Excuses ranged from "I have no snow gear" to "I have no experience on snow" to "I heard somebody slid 1000 feet down the ridge AND ALMOST DIED".
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My stomach growled me out of my cocoon. The night had been cold, definitely the most brutal so far. My water bottles were frozen solid, my shoes stiff from the frozen sweat.
Sleep had been fitful with my 30F bag in the 20F temps. I was also beyond excited to get into town. There was breakfast food down there. Breakfast food that needed zero rehydration, the fancy stuff.
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Reviving from a deep sleep that can only be brought on by pure exhaustion, I opened my eyes to the dim morning light and attempted to sit up.
It didn't go well.
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I opened my eyes to my alarm, but I’d been awake for hours. It was almost too cold to sleep, but that was a good thing for the day’s main mission: Mt. Baden-Powell, the last snow hurdle of Southern California.
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The Acton KOA had a really nice grass area to camp, but the morning dew had settled heavily. Once again, my sleeping bag was soaked.
Melanie was driving to the KOA to pick me up, so I headed for the camp shower to rinse of some of the stink. I didn’t have any soap to speak of…. So I made little headway in the stink removal department. Actually, I might’ve just humidified the stink…
'Whatever. I tried. She married this stink. Totally stuck now.' I smiled and fist-bumped my wedding ring.
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I woke up early to get out of the fire station gazebo before any of the crew showed up. The blisters on my heels had refilled themselves overnight and loudly reminded me they weren’t fans of walking today.
A water faucet at the station allowed for some quick laundry. Invigorated by the fresh smell of my disgusting feet all over my hands, I loaded up on water for a long, dry, uphill stretch ahead of me.
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My eyes slowly opened to the dim blue light of dawn outside the violent confines of my loosely pitched tent. I could tell immediately that at least one tent stake had pulled out throughout the long night of punishing winds and sideways gusts of rain.
Still lying down, I attempted to recruit the muscles needed to sit up, gritted my teeth through the whole body pain... and failed. Uh oh. I don't think my hair even made it off the pillow.
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I slept well in the motel room that night, exhaustion overcoming any nagging anxieties. After pushing through the excruciating heel pain from standing on the motel's hardwood floors again, I packed up and knew that no matter what was going on outside, I'd be walking again today.
There's less to worry about when you know you have no choice.
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I groggily opened my eyes and realized the sun was up. Way up.
Badfish's beer generosity had put me to sleep hard. The night had been windy and the tent was still violently pulsing with every gust. I had planned on getting up early to tackle the first uphill in the cool of the morning.
But why do that when you could trudge up a hot hill in the sun while being mildly hungover instead?
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