10/28Clover rusted over.
Don’t get me wrong, there are nice parts in SoCal. But it definitely takes home the prize for most developed and littered. Seriously. Paralleling deep creek–beautiful goldgreen oasis in the desert–and yet it seems every rock is marked with graffiti. One rock is spraypainted “plz do not litter.” Seriously, do ppl just not give a shit down here? It was the same thing with silverwood lake–a tucked away mountain lake worthy of Oregon status. Not even that dried up. Trash everywhere.
Been awhile since my last meaningful journal. Spent unexpected day at deep creek hot springs; beautiful oasis right on trail with mantis (cause why not?); golden oaks greasy spires of rock encasing refreshing green pools, skinny dipping, laying on sand, good talks. All around an awesome sun shiney day with nothin to do and nowhere to go. Won’t go into the days I missed; there’s much. The wild flowers–red muted trumpets, violets and daisies on fragile stems, sun flowers, pale sinister nightshade blossoms framed by reaching spade leaves. The trail Angels–spent the day playing frolf and kicking it with papa Joe Anderson. The Johnsons in wrightwood who puts us up and ordered us pizza and made us breakfast burritos (THANK YOU SO MUCH). The 24-24-24 challenge (AKA the John Beer Trail), ending at McDonald, sleeping under then underpass. All very SoCal. All very good.
Couldn’t sleep; sociable spring. Shouldn’t of camped there; camp by highway expect cars camp by springs expect noise. Nice ppl though; someone invited me to their house in big bear. Left. Hiking by the light of the moon; so bright it casts shadows.
Following creeks; swallowed in golden oak forest
She smelled of latex gloves and powder.
Give the sit down life a try.
Bouta cross closed lands–hiking the 17 miles closed due to the lake fire. I’ll explain my reasoning soon.
It feels like every so often I have to remind myself that I still somehow have an earring.
Serious bushwhacking in San gironio wilderness. The problem is the trail have literally turned into creeks.
Holy shit, what a beautiful alive area it is however. Mission creek rambling through jagged cut rock jutting diagonally as if reaching yet falling short and wild flowers and cotton wood lining the edges and shrouding the water. Soft green grass harsh rock. Creek and foliage have gracefully devoured the stonelined trail. My shoes are muddy, gaiters ripped. But that seems unimportant in the valley wind. It’s like the deep creek area without the shit graffiti.
Beautiful solo hike today. Ran into mantis and Ike–SOBO hiker met only recently–at ziggy and the bear. I’ve been trying to ditch them–they got a schedule to make it to the end, planes to catch. I don’t. Don’t need the urge to rush, though love their company. And I’m craving to hike alone. But hey, a storms a’brewing.
clouds suspended in te wind shadow of the mountain like frozen ghosts. Stormed hard last night but had a veranda over head at ziggy and the bear. Light fresh snow visible in the crevices of looming San jacintos; last major mountain range methinks. From the valley the climb looks intimidating. Tough climb in store today.
‘Today will be a day.’–remark of resignation or ‘oh well.’
Ice cakes the trail this high up in the San jacintos. Ice coats the needles of the firs. Fresh ice. The sky is a dark gray within the cold cloud and everything is quiet; I can even feel it through my ear buds (listening to GOT of course). It’ll be dark soon, day lights savings makes everything dark soon. There’s a peaceful kind of gloom here.
Huge huge blizzard last night while I was in my tent. I am over 9 thousand feet. The sun is up but I am staying in my tent for the moment. Last night was difficult; spent the entire day climbing uphill and once in elevation spent the entire night trying
As I write this I’m watching the last sun go down over the SoCal chaparral. I know I’ve been a bad blogger; I never meant to leave you in suspense or broken hearted, but it’s your fault for putting faith in me. I’m finishing the last 77 miles with my dad–who flew out to finish with me from Apple town Julian–through the Cleveland National Forest. I had thoughts, but I lost them, come back to me.
All I know is: IM DYING TO FINISH THIS DAMN TRAIL. but I’m also sad to know I’ll be leaving the trail life.
November 13th, concluding thoughts.
I’m sitting bored in a San Diego hotel room in some ritzy gentrified corner of a city with buildings that look as if architecturally designed to match the carpet (does that make sense?). Blue glass, white walled, streets so smooth cars drive over soundlessly, beautiful people well-dressed and accessorized, ties that match perfectly with suit and shoes and oil-black wayfarers, terrible perfume smelling restaurants glamorous polished driftwood interiors. Dad brought my clothes (well not shoes; had to buy those and I hated that process at well; hated feeling the need to buy them.) just like that I shed my hiker skin and I already feel like the life I knew is a world away. I’m in a sour mood. I should be celebratory.
Yesterday at 11:30am I touched the southern terminus with dad; even the Okies (last I saw them was before Chester!) rolled up while we there. It wasn’t explosive excitement, actually it felt more like relief, steady joy, dull warm sunshine. We drove them to El Cajon, I hope I can see them tonight. I’d like to see my SOBO family before it all dissipates into memory.
On San Diego:
I hate this cleanliness. This ‘fun’ built on consumerism. I feel sucked back into it. San Diego is choking me; I wish I miss the hostels and the grease spoon restaurants. I miss the people talking to you for more reasons than its their job.
I’m scared to be going back home into nothing. I have no job, I’m nowhere closer to finding a job, I’m nowhere less intimidated of the word ‘job.’ Like its part of a natural course of events that occurs in a human beings growth cycle–fetus to infant to juvenile to professional. Sure I want a professional life that leaves me happy, fulfilled, and with enough resources to lead the lifestyle I desire to lead. In fact, I need it… Fuck, let’s not talk about jobs. It’s not important, the idea of a ‘job’ as I currently conceptualize it will never be important to me. ‘Jobs’ are what everyone else has–analysts and consultants, marketers and programmers. Work whose only importance is that which concerns the company. I’m sorry if there are readers offended by that, but it’s true. Unless you’re self-employed, half the work people do they do for now other reason than they HAVE to do it. Who the fuck likes being a data analyst? marketing consultant? Sales associate? Assistant director? Perhaps it’s more a complacent enjoyment (I like my coworkers, good hours and vacation time, decent pay, room for expansion). Obviously, that doesn’t make it wrong (you need to make money to survive, support a family, lead a normal American existence, etc). I don’t know what I’m on about. I’m a spoiled suburban 20-something who thinks myself something special. Really the bottom line is: I should stop worrying about it. Do the things I like. Job is a thing your friends are doing; when you find the thing you wanna do it won’t feel like job. It will feel like you. And if it doesn’t, maybe you can find a sexy nice girlfriend. And if you don’t, maybe you can renounce and join a ascetic Buddhist colony so you don’t have to be bothered by any of it.
Post-trail depression will come on strong. I just need to kill my idle time (or perhaps embrace it?)