Warner Springs – Saturday, March 28
I arrived in Warner Springs today.
Three days ahead of schedule.
That wasn’t part of the plan.
But then again, very little about this trail seems to care much about plans.
And I’m beginning to understand that might be the point.
Sharon Heads Home
Sharon left at 7:00 a.m., just as we planned.
There is something quietly hard about those moments. No drama. No speeches. Just a hug, a smile, and suddenly you’re alone on the trail again. The rhythm changes instantly. The silence returns. The world gets wider.
I teamed up with Zen for part of the day, but about half the time I walked solo. A few hikers drifted in and out for a couple hundred yards at a time, but mostly it was just me and my thoughts.
And the interesting thing about walking alone is that you don’t really think in the normal sense. Thoughts just arrive. Wash over you. Pass through you. Then disappear.
It’s like hiking inside your own weather system.
The temperatures were beautiful. Warm. Too warm, really. By the time I reached Mailbox Spring, I was ready for the day to end simply because the heat had wrung me out.
And that is where I met the Mule and Grok.
Mule and Grok
There were a couple of other “PCT hikers” there.
Though I’m not sure that’s quite the right term.
I think these were actually PCT hobos.
One fellow named Mule.
The other named Grok.
If you’ve read Robert A. Heinlein’s A Stranger in a Strange Land, then you’ll understand.
Grok looked groggy. He’d had a seizure earlier in the day and was covered in dust, dirt, and leaves. Shirtless. Quiet. There was a long stitched scar running diagonally across his torso, from right hip to left shoulder. Serious knife work. He didn’t say much.
But he gave Marine vibes.
Mule was different.
Erudite. Articulate. Grubby and trail worn, but sharp. Intelligence vibes. The kind of guy who has seen things and done things. The kind of guy who might be on the lam. And there was something strange about talking with him, a faint sense that he knew the people I know.
Which is odd to encounter in the middle of nowhere.
He shared water intelligence. Trail logistics. He said he’d been on the trail since 2017.
He looked like it.
And I believed him.
Sailor
Then Sailor arrived.
Short. Spry. About my age. Quiet confidence.
She walked right up to Mule and Grok and started talking with them like a social worker. Calm. Gentle. Asking if they needed supplies. Then she walked over to the other hikers, collected extra food, and brought it back to them.
No drama. No performance. Just kindness.
Later I learned this was her sixth PCT hike.
She was moving at nearly 30 miles per day.
She carried one liter of water.
She mostly lived on powders.
She said north of Kennedy Meadows South she rarely treated water.
She cowboy camped briefly that night.
By morning, she was gone.
Some people move through this trail like ghosts.
I suspect I won’t see her again.
But she left an impression.
Sunset Spring and Sprinter
The next day I ambled up to Sunset Spring and arrived just as the heat began building. I hung around doing small maintenance, cleaning mud off signage, picking up trash, and tidying the water cistern.
The only shade available was the shadow of a concrete Forest Service outhouse.
Cool concrete.
So I sat there for several hours.
Mule showed up again. He had walked the road instead of the trail. I suspect he thumbed a ride just so we could talk again.
Around 3:00 p.m. I pushed onward into the heat and reached a spring near the rim before dropping into Anza-Borrego Desert State Park.
Then came honking.
A truck rolled up.
Two ice creams.
Two beers.
Trail magic.
The driver’s trail name was Sprinter.
Two miles later, at the bottom of the descent, he was waiting again.
Another beer.
He also mentioned he’d rescued hikers suffering heat injuries.
These trail angels are real.
Julian and Midnight Miles
Eventually I reached Scissors Crossing with Zen and Randy. The heat was brutal. Around 10:00 a.m.
Then a van pulled up.
More honking.
Ride to Julian.
Just like that.
Zen and Randy got rooms. I stayed thrifty. Zen kindly let me shower and rinse clothes. Free pie and ice cream for PCT hikers. Beer appeared. A slice of pizza appeared.
Trail magic again.
That night I returned to Scissors Crossing.
Camped under the bridge like hobos.
Set my alarm.11:30 p.m. – hiking.
Ten miles uphill in darkness.
Stopped at sunrise.
Slept two and a half hours before the sun cooked me out.
Barrel Springs and Ghost
At Barrel Springs it was cold.
Puffy jackets. Breath in the air.
Then Ghost arrived.
Trail angel.
Twenty years maintaining water sources.
He showed us how spring boxes work.
Reverse French drains. Hidden uphill. Reliable when cattle troughs dry out. He cleared a blockage. Cleaned the system. Explained everything.
Practical wisdom passed quietly.
This knowledge may matter later.
Grizzly Gramps Returns
Later, Grizzly Gramps appeared.
And Nevada, the yellow lab puppy.
Cold sodas.
Cold fruit.
Chairs.
Gathering place.
Later we learn someone had stolen gear from him. Sleeping bags. Chairs.
A harsh hit for someone so generous.
Still, he smiled and stayed.
Trail magic continues even when generosity gets punished.
San Ysidro Creek
That night I cowboy camped along San Ysidro Creek.
Huge oaks.
Babbling water.
Cool air.
I slept deeply.
Up before dawn again.
Warner Springs ahead.
Eagle Rock and Warner Springs
Dawn brought rolling California hills. Prairies. Creeks. Oak trees. The most beautiful stretch so far.
I wandered up toward some rocks.
Eagle Rock.
Then Warner Springs.
And the Warner Springs Community Center is something special.
Shade.
Spritzer mist and lawn chairs.
Showers.
Charging outlets.
Limited resupply.
Bucket laundry.
Exactly what hikers need.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Perfect.
A Small World
It is remarkable to be out here.
The world beyond the trail seems chaotic. Loud. Distracted.
Out here, there is a smaller world.
Hikers.
Trail angels.
Kindness.
Generosity.
No expectations.
Just quiet gratitude.
I mostly hike alone.
I sleep alone.
I miss Sharon.
But I feel full out here.
Filled.
Loved.
Three Days Ahead
I’m not scheduled to leave until Tuesday.
But I’m already here.
Three days ahead.
San Jacinto looms ahead.
Snow.
Heat.
Unknown terrain.
I haven’t planned much beyond here.
And strangely, that feels right.
Seventeen miles ahead is Mike’s Place.
There’s a party tomorrow.
Barbecue.
Fruit.
Beer.
Maybe marijuana. It’s California.
Everyone else has already moved on.
The sun is dropping now.
And so must I.
Because the trail keeps moving.
And now…
So do I.
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