Sunday – End of First Zero Day, Mount Laguna
We drove into CLEEF (Camp Lockett Event & Equestrian Facility – the overnight starting point and orientation center for PCT hikers in Campo, CA) at sunset on Tuesday, just catching the tail end of the evening orientation. It was polished, practiced, and oddly comforting. Paul and Grampa led it. Grampa had his yellow lab puppy, Nevada – still all milk teeth and softness – wandering between hikers like a morale officer.
There was already a quiet gravity in the room. One hiker had twisted her ankle badly at mile 12.5 and was stuck there, trying to rehab instead of flying home. That was the first reminder – the trail does not care how far you’ve come to get here.
Later we shared dinner with “Big Dave,” who had started four days earlier with an 80-pound pack and had somehow ended up back where he began, now re-outfitting himself with what looked like even worse decisions. You see things like that and you don’t judge.
Not really. You just file it away.
Weight matters.
Judgment matters.
Reality matters.
That night we pitched at the group site. A gas light burned bright enough to interrogate us. I rigged a shirt over the tent to block it. Sharon woke up convinced some winged thing was landing on her – turned out to be my shirt casting shadows.
And then the coyotes came.
Not once. Three times.
The kind of howling that ends with something screaming. Sharon hadn’t heard that much before. It gets into your bones.
We were up at 0500 Wednesday. The CLEEF crew had coffee, pancakes, oranges – a proper send-off. By 0600 we were walking north.
At 0900 we met a self-declared “Trail Angel” carrying 12 liters of water and a story about how every water source ahead was dry. He was wrong about all of it. Within ten minutes we were filtering from a flowing creek.
There’s a lesson there too:
Not all confidence is competence.
We knew we were walking into a heat dome. Real heat. July heat in March. So we adjusted – start early, stop early.
The first day took us ten miles along a ridgeline above Hauser Creek. Beautiful terrain – Mediterranean biome, soft light, long views. But by noon it was pushing 95°F. Sharon caught a bit too much sun. We found shade under live oaks, pitched the Durston, and rode out the heat.
Three more groups staggered in over the afternoon, all cooked. One arrived at 8:30 p.m. in the dark. You could hear the exhaustion in the way they moved.
That night we went from sweating through pads to wrapping ourselves tight in quilts against the cold. The desert does that.
It takes.
Then it takes again.
We were moving again at 0515 the next morning.
A rumor of a water cache with oranges turned out to be true. Real oranges. Valley oranges. Not store-bought. Not Costco.
Magic.
We dropped into Hauser Creek, made coffee, ate oatmeal that tasted better than anything it had a right to. Then climbed.
That climb to Lake Morena is long enough to make you honest. We topped out around 1030 – still cool – then dropped into full sun and walked it in slow.
At Lake Morena, we found shade, then found the malt shop. One malt became a burger. The burger became a beer. Civilization has a way of escalating.
Temperatures were pushing 97°F.
Also – I realized I had left my tent stakes behind.
So we hiked back out in the heat to the ranger station and bought heavy steel replacements. Not titanium. Not elegant. But they worked. That’s the only standard that matters out here.
Fifty-cent showers. Six minutes. Enough.
Friday morning started with a small humiliation.
In the dark we walked the wrong way out of camp.
A 70-year-old hiker named Randy corrected us. I was certain he was wrong. He wasn’t.
It’s good to be wrong early. Clears the system. That day was the hottest yet. High chaparral. No cover. Southern exposure climbs. Brutal sun.
We bailed off trail around noon into Cibbets Flat Campground.
And walked straight into trail magic.
Two campsites rented out. Beer waiting. Fruit. Juice. Later – hotdogs, chili, laughter, a fire. Rides back to trail in the morning.
You don’t expect that kind of generosity. Not really. But it’s there. And when you hit it after a hard day, it lands deep.
The next morning was slower. Cooler. A ride back to trail. Then the long climb to Mount Laguna.
And here’s the strange truth: These first four days – heat dome and all – were the easiest hiking we’ve ever done.
Not easy. But the easiest.
Because we adjusted. Because we respected the conditions. Because we didn’t fight the trail.
We met a retired Air Force test pilot – strong, fast, three days in what took us four. But he was blistered and burned.
Meanwhile, the two of us – ten years older, slower – were steady.
That’s not an accident.
We rolled into Mount Laguna, grabbed a beer at the Pine House, and checked into the tiny house hostel.
Zero day.
Real rest.
This morning, we helped a retired critical care ICU nurse sort her gear. COVID had burned her down to the studs. Anxiety, weight, overload – physical and mental. We laid everything out, piece by piece. What did you use? What will you use?
She dropped 4-5 pounds.You could see the shift. Not just on her back – in her mind.
Another hiker, Randy 71, running an ultralight setup – taught me a few things just by letting me look.
I’m still carrying more than I need. On purpose.Ice axe. Microspikes. Cold gear.
Not because I need them here – but because I will. And because right now, the extra weight is training. I’m building toward the Sierra. No rush. No ego. Just preparation. Tomorrow Sharon leaves.
She’ll head back to St. George, back to her life, her work, her role as Grammy.
Before she goes, she’ll carry trail magic – water and beer – out to Scissors Crossing and stash it under the bridge. I’ll find it in a few days.
That thought alone is enough to keep a man moving. Out here, the noise has faded.
No headlines. No outrage cycle. No constant pull of things far away and largely out of our control.
Just the work in front of you.
Water. Heat. Miles. People.
And increasingly, a sense that most of what we carry – in our packs and in our heads – isn’t necessary.
The trail is already teaching.And we’re only four days in.
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