Mr. New Boots (PCT)

Bottom line: Blisters are a tenderfoot hiker’s reward.

Prim8's new Hoka hiking boots. Blister preventers?

11.10.21

Mr. New Boots, that is Prim8 equipped with new hiking boots, and I had arrived at our rendezvous point at the terminus of state road 173 in advance of "Wrong-way" Mark. There, we discovered 173, now blocked off, had been a through road leading from the relative flat terrain nearer Hesperia into the mountains to Lake Arrowhead.

Wide open terrain. We’ve made progress, Prim8.

Out of the mountains? Prim8 replied.

Not entirely.

I’d grown tired of the elevation gains and losses over the miles we’d hiked around Big Bear, but I knew full well, implied by the name, the Pacific Crest Trail had many more hills and mountains to ascend and descend before our journey’s goal will be reached.

Since our last jaunt, Prim8 and I purchased a pair of Hoka Stinson One hiking boots in hopes of warding off pesky foot blisters, the bane of many hikers. Prim8 had had enough of dealing with blisters and I wasn’t too happy about them, either. We hoped we’d solved the blister conundrum and our feet would hike in bliss, having achieved footwear nirvana.

"Add another mile or so to our hiking distance tomorrow," Mark said.

What? "Another mile?"I pictured our 24.5-mile hike down hill towards the Whitewater Preserve some months ago.

We left my car at road end, turned parking lot, in anticipation of our arrival on foot the next day. Then, Mark drove us into Big Bear where Prim8 and I stuffed ourselves with Mexican barbacoa, aka slow cooked meat, washed down with beer, before retiring to our motel room.

11.11.21 Crab Flats to PCT/173 Junction

Up at 4:45AM, we brewed coffee in our rooms, snacked on dried fruit, and consumed bacon prepared by Mark, both pork and turkey, before we set off for our trailhead destination at Crab Flats.

The chilled air and starry sky portended a good weather day.

I sucked down additional coffee as best I could as we bounced around over the rutted gravel/dirt road, generally unfit for most vehicles and designed OHV, aka off-highway vehicle. In the meantime, both Mark and I drank water from disposable plastic bottles, in order to maximize our levels of hydration. I discovered long ago that water is not weightless, so I’ve developed the practice of drinking my fill before the day’s hike, though I carry a prudent supply, as well. Nothing good comes from dehydration.

Last minute gear checks completed and packs donned, we walked away from Mark’s vehicle.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"7AM," Mark replied.

A tad later than we’d hoped.

"And what’s the temperature?"

"I’ve got 43 degrees," Mark said.

"Good temperature," I said. "It’s easier to get warmer, than cooler." I knew we’d warm up within a few minutes from hiking exertion.

All the while, I consoled Prim8 with the delusion that we’d lose elevation, 2301 feet, over the course of our day’s hike. But, you have to know, that the PCT meanders up, around and down mountainsides! So, the accumulated elevation gain would be 240 feet and the elevation loss would be 2414 feet, which amounts to a 2654-foot differential. Doesn’t sound like much, but everything adds up.

And the trail led us up, around and down.

Rest a minute.

After a brief pause, I continued onward.

Grab a snack.

My leg muscles and feet aching with fatigue, I'd found another excuse to rest a minute.

I hiked some more. The trail wound along, overlooking Deep Creek drainage.

Nice view of fall colors. Pause for a scenic photo.

Though the area remains in drought, fall colors show in Deep Creek Canyon.

The ache of my leg muscles had deepened.

What’s with this?

With clear sky above, temperatures climbed into the low-mid 70s. An occasional light breeze lifted my spirit.

And we’ve got shade now and then.

The trail continued up, down, and around. Up, down, and around.

How are you doing, feet?

Aside from the ache and fatigue, I detected no blisters.

"Wrong-way" Mark pauses for a rest on the opposite side of

the rainbow painted arch bridge which crosses Deep Creek.

When I caught up with Mark, who's been leading the way, on the opposite side of the arch bridge which crosses Deep Creek, he said, “You’re eight minutes behind me. Not bad.”

"Could’ve fooled me," I said. "We must be getting close." I meant to my car.

"Another 4 miles from here," Mark said.

Ugh, Prim8 said.

Slog it out, fella.

Having crossed Deep Creek and with the trail direction shifted westward, we came into full sun. The sun, on its late afternoon downward leg and lower in the sky, however, didn’t scorch us.

Though seemingly forever to come into sight, the trail winding this way, then that, we approached the Mojave River Dam.

Nearly there. Then, another mile to go.

My legs and feet continued their ache.

What’s the damage done this time?

We followed a gravel road about half a mile on gentle rising terrain to the tunnel where Deep Creek flows. Here, we faced foot-deep water about twenty-feet across. After removing my boots and socks in preparing to fjord the Deep Creek, my iPhone took a bath.

Plop! A short, tiny little dink. What could that be?

I spotted my iPhone resting in a few inches of water. "Crap, I dropped my phone in the water," I said, as I retrieved it. I gave it a good shaking and hoped for the best.

"You probably shouldn’t carry it on your belt," Mark said.

"Yeah, I know," I said. "I wanted it handy to take photos, but I guess the belt holder wasn’t designed for hiking." Should’ve learned that lesson when your phone fell off earlier in the day, twice.

I trudged the remaining distance to my car, dreading learning of my phone’s fate.

Seated in my car, "Where’s our motel?" I asked Mark. By that I meant, what was our drive route to get there.

"Let me check," Mark said as he searched on his phone.

"I guess I’ll bite the bullet and check mine," I said. Come on, baby.

Seconds passed.

"It came on! I can’t believe it," I said. Next time, carry it in your pocket, fool.

In Crestline we enjoyed another Mexican meal, washed down with beer.

"I’m knackered," I told Mark. "My muscles and feet ache."

"I’d like to start a little later tomorrow morning," he said. "Maybe, we can shorten our hike a little."

"That’s okay by me. I’m gonna be soar and stiff the next couple of days."

"I may just schedule a massage for when I get home," Mark said. "And I’d like to beat the rush hour traffic on the way home."

"Wrong-way" got no quarrel from me.

Our cars with us at the motel, we decided on a later start and shorter hike of 9.3 miles.

Done deal.

We’d hiked 21.5 miles and my body knew it.

Settled into the motel room, I wondered whether a shower, followed by a decent night’s rest, would prepare me for the achy breaky pains of body stiffness I'd face in a few hours.

Feet checked, I discovered a small blister on one foot. Crap, can’t seem to avoid them. At least, it had appeared solo.

Mile marker achieved: 314.3

11.12.21 PCT/173 Junction to Silverwood Lake

My alarm sounded at 6:30AM, as I’d set it.

Yep, stiff as cardboard. I hobbled around the room as I collected my wits and gear, and made ready to leave.

Mark and I consumed a hardy breakfast in Crestline before we set off to leave my car at Pilot Rock Staging Area parking lot, which overlooks Silverwood Lake dam.

Then, in Mark’s SUV, we headed to the PCT junction with 173.

Been here, Prim8 said.

Yep, déjà vu, all over again.

At 9AM, day pack readied, I tanked up on water. "Got any ibuprofen, Mark?"

"Yeah," he said and offered me two tabs.

I should carry my own.

I took tentative down the trail, wondering, Why do I do this to myself?

Just gut it out.

Within a few minutes, however, with help from Mark’s hiker’s medical cabinet, I’d achieved a steady pace.

A cloudless sky and scarcity of trees left us exposed to full sun, though temperatures remained civil, hovering in the mid-70s in the brief spots of shade. Periodic slight breezes helped.

I reminded myself that today's hike would be shorter. We hiked on flatter terrain, with considerably less elevation gain and loss than the previous day, and we enjoyed open views of the small valley to our north, bounded by an escarpment beyond.

Looking westward from PCT between Mojave River Forks Reservoir and Silverwood Lake.

As the hours progressed, we speculated about our time of completion.

"We may be done by one," Mark said.

We continued our steady pace.

When we arrived at the trail junction, my car parked another a hundred yards up the paved road, "It’s 1:30PM," Mark said. "We’ve come 9.3 miles. That’s 2.2 miles an hour."

“Pretty good, considering,” I said. Considering my stiffness from yesterday.

"Wrong-way" got no quarrel from me.

For me, three mph, sustained only over short distances, is the best I can expect. One mph would be a snail's pace, and two mph I deem reasonable. "Anything over two mph is icing on the cake," I added.

After retrieving Mark’s vehicle, I changed into my tennies for my drive home. Not only had my foot-condition not worsened, though my feet were sore, I felt relieved that no additional blisters appeared, in spite of the one that I’d cultivated yesterday, which had burst.

Could’ve been worse!

I made it home, lickety-split, ahead of the most of stop-and-go traffic.

(Prim8’s accumulated PCT progress: mile marker 323.2.)

A Few "Lesser Known and Obscure" Facts (I've Learned) About Iceland

Song in a fish tank (disused fish oil tank, that is).

Bottom Line: Travel enriches the mind and spirit, in spite of any intent to the contrary.

My wife and I visited Iceland this past June, after two previous trip cancellations. Once we’d shelled out our pesos, we ran the gauntlet of COVID requirements (vaccination and negative PCR test verification) to board our Reykjavik flight. Then, during our Viking cruise circumnavigation of the island, we surrendered daily spit samples for rapid testing each morning, and as well, donned tracking devices, in order we be “notified,” if we came into proximity of anyone discovered to be a carrier. (And though some individuals might run away from these requirements complaining like a cat facing a bath, I considered them reasonable and the results well worth the effort.)

We arrived in Reykjavik the day before boarding our cruise ship, everything according to Hoyle. That evening, however, our trip headed southward when primate turned violently ill. Long story short, my symptoms improved over the next two days . . . and Janet experienced the same problem, though her symptoms trailed mine by a day. Jet lag didn’t do either of us any favors, either. However, with daily improvement, we rallied mid-cruise and enjoyed a strong finish.

I learn new things when I travel. Things about the country, the culture, the people, that I’d never learn any other way. I could learn those things on the internet, though probably wouldn’t think, or take the time, to do so. And besides, firsthand experience has no equal for me. My thinking expands when I travel. I relate to our shared humanity and, as a result, consider myself an earthling, my identity not restricted to a political group, territory or flag. (Not to be confused with patriotism, mind you.)

Here are a few tidbits I learned in Iceland that I hadn’t previously known, or given thought beforehand (but since I’ve learned these more obscure facts, I have given them thought and included links in places to kindle your curiosity):

1) Iceland is a small country. With an area of 103,000 km² Iceland is more than twice the size of Denmark, or about the same size as the US state of Kentucky.

A scale model of Iceland in Reykjavik City Hall, looking east to west.

(Note the rugged topography on the less populated eastern coastline.)

2) Iceland is roughly centered along the 65-degree north latitude, about that of central Alaska and southern Scandinavia, and straddles the Eurasian tectonic plate to the east, and the North American tectonic plate to the west. Indeed, Iceland exists because of the plate spreading along that rift zone (at about three centimeters per year, give or take a few millimeters).

A short segment of the rift, Europe to the right, North America to the left.

(Though it wouldn’t be credible to say that you can stand with one foot in

Europe and the other in America!)

3) Volcanoes, barren lava fields and ash cones blanket the landscape as a result of Iceland’s creation from the up-welling of magma along the rift zone. And the Icelanders are familiar with volcanic activity, you might say that it’s in their bones, and they don’t deny the reality of their situation, in fact they embrace it. They warm homes and generate electricity with thermal water. Tourism of late has boosted their economy, particularly to observe volcanic activity. Seems people ogle with fascination at flowing lava and flying ash. In 1973, an eruption aside Vestmannaeyjar—don’t ask, I can’t pronounce this, I don’t speak Icelandic—threatened to block the town’s harbor, its lifeline to the sea. The town isn’t connected to the rest of the country by road. Fireman from several countries set up water hoses to cool and harden the lava flow. Meanwhile, a portion of the town was buried under ash. (I cheated and googled a news release about this eruption: https://icelandmag.is/article/when-residents-vestmannaeyjar-woke-discover-a-volcano-erupting-outskirts-town)

A number of buildings disappeared under ash in 1973. This one was

excavated and enclosed in the Eldheimar museum. Tourists flock to

check this out. Who wouldn’t? And the Icelanders are making money

on this deal! (For a virtual visit to the museum:

https://visitwestmanislands.com/tour/eldheimar-museum/)

4) The Norse began settling the island before the end of the first century CE (more than five hundred years before Columbus’ dad had a twinkle in his eye). Vikings—the term for Norse pirates—were a hardy bunch. Though perhaps not as blood-thirsty as depicted, on occasion they relished a pillage and ransacking of some unfortunate neighbor.

One of the wax figurine scenes in the Saga Museum (https://www.sagamuseum.is/).

5) And when the Vikings embarked on a pillage and ransack tour, some, if not most or all, donned metal helmets. Most Vikings helmets didn’t sport horns, however. (That was a matter of personal finances.) It is believed the “myth,” backed by popular demand, that all helmets had horns, originated in the 19th century. (Here’s more information about that: https://www.history.com/news/did-vikings-really-wear-horned-helmets and https://en.natmus.dk/historical-knowledge/denmark/prehistoric-period-until-1050-ad/the-viking-age/weapons/helmets/)

Examples of Norse helmets in the Saga Museum in Reykjavik. Note

the lack of horns! (For a quickie visit: https://www.sagamuseum.is/)

5) Remember the pillaging and ransacking part? Icelander male lineage primarily derives from the Norse (coming from the surrounding territory enveloping the Baltic Sea) while female lineage, in large proportion, derives from the Irish (British Isles). Seems the Norse—at least their pirate brethren, the Vikings—liked sequestering their wives (slaves) from Ireland. Though I heard that the local British-Isles ladies, preferred the Norse fellows over the local Anglo-Saxon men. (Seems the Vikings were better groomed than their Anglo-Saxon counterparts. You know, combed their hair, bathed more, smelled better. Take a lesson gentlemen!) So, perhaps some intrepid gals went to Iceland voluntarily, more or less.

Side note: I had Ancestry.com check my genealogy a few years ago. According to those results, I hail from the region of northern Europe, Southern Scandinavia and northern British Isles. I’ve concluded I’m a latter day Viking! I suspect my wife might disagree, however, and claim I descend from the Anglo-Saxons, as occasionally, she says I need a shower, because I “smell bad.”

6) Iceland’s population is quite small, numbering 368,792 in 2021. However, the bulk of Icelanders, 233,034 of them, congregate in and around Reykjavik, the capital. Only five towns boast of populations larger than 10,000. Icelanders concentrate along the more hospitable western and northern coastlines, and where fjords provide calm harbor.

Here’s one such town, Eskifjordur, situated along the opposite fjord shoreline.

7) Ten percent of Iceland’s landmass is covered by several large glaciers, and with all that melting ice, waterfalls abound.

Gullfoss Waterfalls, which can be visited via a “Golden Circle” tour from Reykjavik.

The edge of the ice field which feeds the nearby Gullfoss Waterfalls.

8) Iceland is relatively devoid of trees. What forests persisting before the Norse arrived soon became their housing material. Today, trees are paltry in number and height by North American standards. A favorite local joke goes, “What do you do when you get lost?” Answer: “Stand up.”

One of Iceland's "forests" near the WW II museum in Reydarfjordur. They

appear eight-ten feet tall, but I didn’t have the time to attempt getting lost.

9) Weather, along the southwestern portions of the country, is influenced by the relatively warmer Atlantic current from North American environs. The warmer waters historically supported abundant stocks of fish, though their numbers have declined in recent years from over-harvesting. (“Salmon farming” does occur in fjords in scattered locations, though controversial. What if the guy salmon escaped their pens, had their way with the local girl salmon and thus contaminated the wild genetic lineage with bad genes?)

A local Icelander models and talks about fishing gear of the more recent past. (Note

that his gloves have two thumb inserts. Turning them over provided extended use.)

10) Fish served as a primary dietary choice of the first settlers—this should be of no surprise—and remains so today. Lamb and a few veggies, here and there, has supplemented Icelander cuisine. Very little beef was, nor is, consumed. Winter housing and feeding of large animals, such as cattle, proves prohibitive, both in supplying them warmth and feed. Sheep, on the other hand, fit the red meat bill, as they consume less, require smaller space to house and grow thick fur, perfect clothing for the sheep in winter and humans the next spring.

Side note: Don't eat the fermented shark! Though I'm open-minded, I predict you wouldn't enjoy its taste, either. Though now that I’ve mentioned it, some of you will be compelled to try it . . . you know who you are! Regardless, do get your veggies as you dig into a delicious lamb stew.

11) The bulk of Iceland, particularly the interior, is devoid of human habitation, and most everything else, as that land not buried under ice or aforementioned volcanic features, contains poor soil which is unsuited for agriculture. As a result, farming in Iceland has never been a popular occupation.

Though along the coastline (and hence, not the interior), try farming on that!

Only a narrow strip near the water may be suitable to grow grasses and shrubs,

and is subject to avalanche during winter and general landslide year-round.

12) Reindeer roam wild in the island’s interior. However, Icelanders do not consume venison. They rejected that notion when Norwegian imported reindeer in the 18th century. (I gathered the Icelanders didn’t like the Norwegians “meddling” with their culinary preferences.)

13) The arctic fox is the largest indigenous (not introduced by humans) mammal on the island. One or more, no doubt, hitched rides to Iceland on ice flows long before the Norse arrived in their longships.

14) Turns out the longships, powered by oars and sail, and built with over-lapping wood planks which provided flexibility to withstand ocean waves, were quite sea worthy.

An artist’s representation of a Norse longship in Reykjavik.

15) Icelanders, at least many nowadays, display wit and humor. Icelanders think that Iceland and Greenland should swap names, although I’m not sure Icelanders consider this a joke! At least around the edges (coastline) Iceland is clear of snow and appears relatively green with scattered indigenous shrubs, stunted trees and grasses.

My wife and I encountered this sign while rambling the streets of Reykjavik.

However, not in the mood for pizza, we didn’t check the assertion.

A trash receptacle in Vestmannaeyjar. (A protest against nuclear

weapons or volcanic activity? Either way, you get ash clouds.)

16) Icelandic forebearers had creative imaginations and likely suffered bouts of boredom during their long, dark winters, particularly without electric lighting. Huldufólk, AKA Hidden People, were believed to inhabit the countryside among the human folk. You know, elves, who lived in a parallel universe and showed themselves now and then. Most Icelanders no longer believe they exist, however. (See this Wikipedia link for more information: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hulduf%C3%B3lk)

A "Hidden People's" church according to Icelander folklore.

17) Icelanders prize their lineage of horses. (Even though they're small, short and stocky, don’t call them ponies!) If an Icelandic horse is taken out of Iceland, for whatever reason, it cannot be returned. No ifs, ands or buts. The Icelanders don’t want an introduction of diseases or genetics to effect or alter their horse population.

One said Icelandic horse, though not posing for me. (And no,

my wife and I didn't see the Northern Lights while there.)

Photo Credit: pexels – Evgeny Tchebota.

Travel Tip: If you travel to Iceland, even for one day, I recommend a “Golden Circle” Tour from Reykjavik, which will provide you the best of what Iceland offers.

PS: This, my most ambitious blog to date, could contain an error or two. So, please let me know of any errors. Other comments welcomed, too.

A Blistering Pace (PCT)

Bottom Line: Some boots aren’t made for walkin’, apparently . . . at least on my feet.

6.22.21

My feet taped to minimize blisters—hopefully, avoid them altogether—Mark and I enjoyed a cooked breakfast, then dropped my car at marker 266.1, junction with Hwy 18, in anticipation of our day’s hike.

Been here, Prim8 said.

Last time . . . I hope, Prim8.

In Mark’s car, we arrived at the PCT junction with Polique Canyon Road.

“What time is it?” I checked my iPhone. “8:30 AM, not bad,” I said.

Cool morning temperature and an overcast sky bode well.

I hoped to avoid the sweat-fest of our previous hikes. Though trail elevation exceeded 6,000 feet, direct sun this time of year would generate sweat like a squeezed orange dripping juice.

The southbound PCT headed “eastward” from our location, though shifted direction as we moved along.

We came to a trail junction, observed a lake in the distance directly ahead, though only slowed momentarily before we turned onto the right fork.

“Which lake is that? What direction?” I asked.

Within a few feet, Mark halted and referred to his map. “That could be Big Bear Lake,” he said.

“Can’t be,” I said. Could be. “Is there another lake north of the trail here?”

“No, that’s got to be Big Bear Lake,” Mark said. “I think we’re going the wrong way.”

How could that be? “We headed east from your car,” I said. “Logic dictates north lies to the left and south to the right. Though without opportunity to see shadows, it’s difficult to tell direction.”

Of course, we’d carried compasses.

Mark indicated with his hand. “Compass direction shows north that way.”

“How did we get turned around?” I said. “We haven’t deviated from the trail.”

“I don’t know, but let’s backtrack to my car,” Mark said.

With that, we retraced our steps over the 1.2 miles to Mark’s vehicle.

After a thorough examination of Mark’s maps and GPS device . . . and our compasses, we concluded we’d been heading the correct direction. But, still. . . .

Once again at the trail junction, 2.4 miles later, “There’s the problem,” I said. “We should’ve read the PCT sign over there,” I pointed left, “not the post-it note there,” I pointed right.

And so, this time, we made a hard left, the trail almost doubling back onto itself.

“Now we’re on the right track,” Mark said.

“Simple mistake, easy to make,” I said, though surprised we both had made it.

The temperature remained comfortable, the sun obscured by overcast and our hike proceeded without problem, though I noticed increasing complaints from my feet, particularly heels.

More blisters?

The aches, pains, complaints from my feet eased when we paused for a thirty-minute lunch break in the shade of several conifers. The sun at full strength now, we noted our thermometers read 83 degrees.

“Doesn’t feel that hot to me,” I told Mark, though I anticipated the heat of full sun and accompanying sweat. I removed my boots and socks. “Yep, blisters. I knew it.” Nothing to do but soldier on.

Mark said, “There a chance of a thunderstorm with lightening tomorrow.”

Ugh. “Maybe, we’ll get lucky and outrun it,” I said. I flashed on my summit of Gannett Peak in Wyoming with Dr. Bobo, when he and I had piled our gear some thirty feet away before we hunkered out of the wind, after Bob had warned, “Yeah, you don’t want any metal on you with lightening nearby.”

We continued onward, me counting down the distance, wiping sweat, feeling the burn of foot-blisters.

By the time we’d arrived at my car, we’d decided to pre-position it at mile marker 292.2, leaving it overnight in order to save time the next morning . . . though we were yet to know if the OHV route there was passable.

Turned out, it was . . . and we did.

At the hotel in Big Bear, I hit the shower, didn’t remove tape, preferred not to look at my feet. Knew I’d have to examine them afterwards, though.

Yep. A large blister on my right heel. What will I need to do to prevent this?

I discarded those pieces of tape beyond salvage, then applied additional layers everywhere.

6.23.21

6 AM, bright and early, with drive-through coffee and breakfast Mc-sandwich from the Big Bear McDonald’s consumed en-route, we returned to the Polique Canyon Road parking turnout at PCT junction, mile marker 278.6.

Overcast, occasional slight breezes and a cool temperature bode well. The overcast sky appeared subdued.

“That’s see if we can outrun that thunderstorm,” I said.

Mark requested a photo by a tree at the road junction.

Me, one, too, Prim8 demanded.

Okay, but we need to get moving.

Prim8 hugs a tree.

We marched off at a fast clip.

Foot check. Okay.

Clouds in the distance behind us appeared dark, so we kept a steady pace, hoping to escape a downpour, though each of us carried gear to avoid a soaking.

As we marched along my foot complaints mounted, demanded more of my focus.

Damn, blisters. What the hell do I have to do?

All in, however, I harbored no intention of turning back.

Brief stops for a photo, or a wee break, here and there, slowed our progress only slightly. And, as has been the case while we have hiked, we swapped personal tidbits. Mark joked about and divulged the nickname of “Wrong-way” that he’d gotten on a field survey job.

"Wrong-way" Mark poses as storm clouds roil above.

The wind increased, with short gusts to 80 mph, my best guess, and the clouds roiled and darkened as we progressed across a plateau strewn with boulders. Periodic checks suggested we could be enveloped by a storm any minute.

The sounds of scattered rain drops bolstered my resolve and though they soon stopped, I didn’t slacken my pace.

My foot-complaints increased in intensity, and as I limped along, I counted down the remaining distance to my car.

It’s out there somewhere, Prim8 . . . unless somebody stole it, cross your fingers.

Another hundred yards . . . around this bend . . . somewhere beyond those green trees . . . the stream is nearby.

I sighed with relief when I crossed a flowing stream. We’re close, Prim8.

And then I spotted “Wrong-way,” as well as my car, waiting at the PCT junction with Crab Flats Road, mile marker 292.2.

My feet gave thanks, even though I drove Mark to his car.

We discussed our respective drives back home and tentative plans for our next PCT trip.

“I’m taking 138 to Pearblossom,” I told Mark, “and I’m not missing that turn, again.” Come hell or high water.

Rain began to pour, when I found the Hwy 138 turn off.

Escaped the storm by the hair of our chinny-chin-chins, Prim8. But, I've got to figure how to prevent blisters.

(Prim8’s accumulated PCT progress: mile marker 292.2.)