Week 2 Mileage: 255.4
“Getting Cooked”
I limped to the road that leads into Big Bear. My ankle was swollen up pretty good, and pulling a 40-mile day probably wasn’t the smartest thing I could have done so soon into this hike. The reason I pushed so hard was because I had left my credit card at the post office in Campo, and it was being sent to Big Bear. I was five miles into the start of the hike when the postmaster sent me an email through my website telling me she had my card and wanted to know where to send it. Big Bear made sense at the time, but later I realized I was 260 miles away—and it was Friday. The post office would only be open on Saturday from 10 to 12, hence the frantic pace to make it there on time. The luxury of slowing down and waiting until Monday doesn’t exist during a record attempt.
At 8 p.m., reaching the road, the sun had set, and what would normally be an easy hitch into town wouldn’t be because of the darkness—so I got a Lyft. For all you old people reading this, a Lyft is another form of an Uber. For all you old people who don’t know what Uber is, it’s a new way to schedule rides through your phone (it’s what young people do nowadays).
At 8:45 p.m., I was dropped off at my hotel, ordered pizza, showered—no laundry—cleaned my clothes in the shower, and slept. The next morning, I got to the P.O. at 10:15 and was out by 10:30. Thank you, Campo postmaster! I headed to CVS, bought compression socks and Advil, resupplied, and was back on the trail by 12:30.
Twenty-one miles later, I set up camp, cowboy style, under the stars. I realized just before I stared at the back of my eyelids that tomorrow’s section was a cruiser, and there was potential for a 50-mile day. The socks and Advil had done their job, and the swelling had gone down. On trail at 5 a.m., I went for it, passing the Deep Creek Hot Springs—where, as always, the naked people were flocking about. Skin flutes flapping in the wind, chesticles bouncing all around.
By 2 p.m., I was 25 miles in. By 8:40, I had pushed farther. But by 10 p.m., at 46.5 miles, my feet were getting beat up, so I called it and rested those poor dogs.
Six and a half miles in the morning, I arrived at the Cajon Pass McDonald’s. Roped into the “2 for 6” sausage McMuffin deal, I placed my order and got a deluxe breakfast. I took three McMuffins with me; as much as I wanted to eat everything, I didn’t want to feel like complete garbage heading out. I probably would have been forced to dig a cat hole—not long after—the size of which would’ve had to fit a small dog, like my brother’s Yorkie Poo.
There was a fire reroute this year that took the trail out of the mountains and onto a road leading into Wrightwood. I linked up with a kid from New Mexico named Miles. Real name, not trail name—but very fitting, don’t you think? We headed to Yoddler’s restaurant for $2 taco night, and after stuffing my face, I decided to get a room. After 46.5 miles yesterday and 30-plus today, I could use a slight break.
An 8.5-mile road walk out of town led up to Vincent Gap, back to the PCT, and by 11:30, I was ascending 10,000 feet up Mt. Baden-Powell. The plan was to get as close to mile 400 by the end of the day. There was hardly any snow up high, which was great for my pace and much different than last year.
Why aim for 400 miles? Well, the KOA campground I sent my bag to was at mile 444. To keep on my pace of 250-plus for the week, I needed to be there by Thursday morning—so I pushed hard, hiked late, and ended the day at mile 399.8.
The next morning, I was gone by 5:15 a.m. A fellow hiker was sawing logs all night in a tent nearby, so I didn’t get much shuteye. Regardless, I was able to cruise pretty well through a hiker bubble and make it to a fire station with a water spigot—a place where I had been stung by a scorpion back in 2017.
A big uphill climb out of there in the afternoon sun took a lot out of me, but I pressed on and was five miles on the dot from KOA by the end of the day.
Arriving at the campground at 6:30 p.m., I had to wait until 8 for the store to open. No matter—I had to charge my stuff and put down several packets of oatmeal that I’d been neglecting for some 300 miles. Got the box! Always a relief. There were shoes in there, but they were a lame pair of Altras, and mine were still holding up well—so I switched out the footbeds and donated the shoes.
I wanted a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, but this place wanted $11 for a pint! I live in New Hampshire, bordering Vermont. I pay $5–6 for one of those. Eleven dollars is highway robbery. Welcome to California!
Ten miles into Agua Dulce—sandwich, bottle of Coke, and back at it. Yet again, poor afternoon timing. A massive uphill climb in the heat of the day—I felt like a fried egg being cooked in a cast-iron pan. I have to stop doing this!
Nine miles from town, I refilled my H₂O at Bear Springs, continued up, then down, then up, then down, then up, then down again. Missing a turn to a forest station for water, I pressed on uphill and cowboyed right on the trail, overlooking L.A., at 41 miles in for the day.
I was excited the next morning. I would be hitting the 500-mile mark in under two weeks—hopefully. Already a day ahead of last year’s pace. I’m now on the 40-mile train until Kennedy Meadows, at which point I’ll enter the Sierra with a mile-per-day drop into the low 30s.
It’s taken two weeks, but I’m back to feeling like my old self again.
Egg salad is really chicken salad if you think about it. —Glen Danzig
