Day 29: ugh, 13 measly miles

Mile 30, Day 2 from the Mexican border

What was I thinking when I persuaded my husband and 10-year-old daughter to hike the Pacific Crest Trail with me for the next six months?

We start on the 2,650-mile journey to the Canadian border on April 8. Right off the bat I nearly get creamed by an idiot driver as we walk along Highway 94 during a side trip to sign the official Pacific Crest Trail register at the post office in Campo, Calif.

We hike long after dark to make our daily mileage goal. Unable to find a campsite, we pitch the tent along part of the trail where it doubles as a dirt road used by the omnipresent Border Patrol -- half expecting to wake up to find illegal immigrants helping themselves to our water. When we finally go to bed, I discover a tick embedded in my ankle.

Mile 127, Day 10

After camping at Lost Valley Spring, we head out under partly cloudy skies in an area heavily burned by last year’s fires. We pull out our ponchos when drops of rain begin to fall but then the temperature drops, the wind rises and the rain turns to sleet, stinging Mary’s face as we march on.

By 2 p.m., Mary and I are wet, cold and in danger of getting hypothermia. We have to get the tent up. I can’t warm up so Gary helps me put on all my heavy clothes and bundles me into a sleeping bag with Mary. By now it’s windy and snowing. Gary goes outside in his underwear (he doesn’t want to get his clothes wet) to tie down the wind-battered tent. We zip two sleeping bags together and all get inside; I’m in the middle and toasty warm. In the morning there’s ice inside the tent.

Mile 158, Day 13

On my 53rd birthday, Mary keeps wandering off into the brush. Turns out she made me a present: a heart outlined in rocks with my trail name, Nellie Bly, and age spelled out in pebbles.

After picking up water at a shady cache, we tackle steep Apache Peak in the San Jacinto Mountains. A cold, strong wind whipping over the top leaves us chilled and wind-blown. We set up the tent a little past the summit but it’s too windy to cook. I wait until the next morning for my birthday feast: ramen noodles, cocoa and freeze-dried chocolate mousse.

Mile 250, Day 20

It’s a long hard day of uphill. We set up a dry camp on a saddle near Coon Creek in the San Bernardino Mountains. As we curl up in our sleeping bags, we hear strange roaring sounds. Mary is frightened, certain bears or mountain lions are nearby. The next morning we cross a road and discover the source of the noise -- a private zoo.

Mile 335, Day 26

We push hard with a goal of covering 58 miles in three days after camping in an ugly burned-over patch on the edge of Silverwood Lake State Recreation Area. A more desolate stretch of the trail is hard to imagine. Although vegetation is returning -- some grasses and wildflowers -- the place is depressing and hot.

The route is extremely hard to find because signposts and landmarks were destroyed in the recent fires. We hunt for a “small stream” that reportedly was running well two months ago, but we see no sign of it. I’m just about give up when we see water trickling over rocks and down a narrow ravine.

Mary and I lap up water as fast as Gary can purify it. An hour and a half later, we drag ourselves away from our grotto and hike 10 more hot, dusty miles to Interstate 15 where we re-enter civilization with a McDonald’s meal and a stay at a Best Western.

Mile 380, Day 29

Climbing to the summit of 9,399-foot Mt. Baden Powell in the San Gabriel Mountains is a dream trip for Boy Scouts. The peak is named for Lord Robert Baden-Powell, who founded the Scouts movement. For us, it’s more of a nightmare.

After days of hot desert hiking, we’re eager for crisp mountain air, evergreen-shaded trail and twisted limber pines. But ice and snow make route-finding difficult and walking dangerous. Snowfields tilted at sharp angles are slippery and awkward. I take a bruising fall, and Mary slides a few times too. Gary’s heel blisters are very painful.

The trail is so hard to find that when we finally stumble on a marker, I bend over and kiss the little PCT symbol. It takes an entire day to go 13 measly miles -- one of our worst days.

To be continued ...