It’s been only a few days since I was in town, because I am picking up the pace. It feels good. I feel strong. I hiked Big Bear to Wrightwood largely solo, did some introspection, and got some fantastic peaceful rest in town. It’s been a good week.

This week is also special because I receive my trail name. I am christened “Milk and Cigarettes” by my good friend Liminal. Trail names, essentially hiker nicknames, range from silly to perplexing. They are so ubiquitous that you may know someone for hundreds of miles and never learn their real name. Generally they arise from a mishap, unusual act, or personal idiosyncrasy. The best trail names capture some of the essential quality of the hiker.

Anyways, I am “Milk and Cigarettes” because much like the absentee fathers of yore, I am apt to walk away on a minor errand and never be seen again. The old irish goodbye. I can’t argue, it’s true. It’s in my nature to disappear. Sometimes I just have to go.

After a late start I leave Big Bear in an inexplicably depressed mood. I am more off-putting than usual or necessary in conversations. It’s clear what my problem is. I need to let some miles rip. So I do.

This is an incredibly beautiful and well-maintained section of rolling pine forests, more sparse than dense. I pass a veritable shantytown of durstons at mile 20 of the day but my legs want to keep going. I hike through dusk and a little nighttime, before finding an unmarked perfectly flat, windless, bugless, quiet campsite with the most beautiful view of so many stars. I’m alone again, but this time it feels okay, familiar, even comforting. My own presence, just being here, is enough. I’m a little sad everyone else always pitches a tent, because the stars are really so lovely today.

Another big day follows. I aim for 30 miles and do 27. I pass by some natural hot springs, which I had been excited for, until I saw the sickening green color, algae, and rumors of norovirus and flesh eating bacteria. Pass. This is a popular destination for people from nearby cities and the graffiti is clear evidence.

I briefly reunite with Enema Boy and High Tide (aren’t trail names fun?), before continuing on my way alone. Today I miscalculate the distance to a water source or get distracted, or something, because before I know it, I have 10 miles to cover with just half a liter of water left. The sun is blaring, it is in the 90s. But it is not my first rodeo anymore. An unpleasant walk, but I am used to this now, so just try not to drag it on longer than necessary.

I camp on a windswept ridge with a 360 degree view of the surroundings, my kingdom stretching for miles.

Today is a special day. We cross within ~0.3 miles of a McDonald’s, the only time on the whole trail this happens as far as I know. It’s 25 miles away from where I camped but it goes fast. I see literally no one today. The only soul I run across is a baby rattlesnake, my first sighting of the trail.

The chaparral scenery is roughly the same as it has been since Campo, with gravel, shrubs, and some poison oak around. Nothing notable until the last few miles of the day, where I finally take a turn and see a sweeping view of the valley. Cars, trains, houses, the trail crossing I-15, and Mt. Baldy hazy and snow-capped in the distance, whether from clouds or pollution I cannot be sure.

In the final few miles there are large rolling patches of golden grass waving in the wind. A classic scene of my childhood, so nostalgic, I missed it badly during my east coast years. I am finally home for good, not on vacation, or visiting, but home. Finally home.

I finally make it to the McDonald’s, where the food is expectedly average. I am reminded why I never usually eat here. Mostly I am elated to see other hikers I know. I meet up with Captain America (all of his gear and clothes are american flag themed) (he is actually a very chill guy and fellow ultrarunner) and we hike a couple miles onward until we find a perfect flat spot to camp just as it gets dark. We had found some spots earlier, but the noise of cars from the freeway was still too loud there, we both agreed.

The spot was a miraculous find, and we begin to set up camp, pitch tents (pitch my groundsheet lol), eat dinner. A few minutes later it seemed like the ground started to rumble, getting louder. Earthquake? But no, it kept coming. Forget vague car noises from the freeway, we have camped just feet from an active freight train line, blaring horns and all. It is so horrible I start laughing involuntarily. Just my luck. We both say “can you believe this shit?!??” to each other in unison. Or I think that’s what happened, because it was too loud to really hear anything except rumbling and honking. We are too tired to hike onward however, so train noises all night it is.

There is a massive climb out of Cajon Pass, 7,500 feet, and I challenge myself to do it as fast as possible, without stopping. It is not very steep, but incredibly long. Aside from a short break to pee, I am successful. By the top, I feel cooked. Well done. Medium brown crust. Over-crisp. But proud. A new record, I climb over 8,200ft that day and feel overall very strong.

I find a ridge with a view of the cloud layer below and set up my sleeping bag for a nap, it is cold here at altitude. I keep staring at the mountain across from me and finally decide that I NEED to climb it. I have to backtrack 3 miles of trail, and people I run into repeatedly ask if I am lost, but it’s worth it. The mountain is Pine Mountain, adjacent to Mt. Baldy.

I begin the steep, treacherous ridge walk, with mini-rockslides being born with each step.

Halfway up, I run into Bender and Goodwill, who hiked the trail last year, and are returning to normal life tomorrow. I get lots of beta on the passes coming up and listen to Bender’s crazy mountaineering stories until it gets dark and freezing cold on the top of Pine Mountain.

In the morning, they decide to continue on to Baldy, and I decide to go to town because my legs are not in top shape. I know I could get UP safely, but getting DOWN is another story. It’s hard to call my blue blaze early, but it was the right decision, and I spend the rest of the day eating pizza and relaxing with trail angel Liz’s beautiful dogs.

Next I will head to Agua Dulce, where I plan to make a more brief stop. More “real” desert is ahead and I can’t deny I am excited to bake in the heat of sun again.

See you soon!

Milk&Cigarettes