Campground
(Editor's Note: Chattanoogan Claire Henley started an adventure of a lifetime on the remote Pacific Crest Trail in April. Along the way, she had many adventures and found herself a husband named Big-Spoon).
If you want a place in the sun, you have to expect a few blisters.”
-Loretta Young
The morning after the monstrous windstorm, though skies were now clear and the sun shone bright, everything I owned was wet. I therefore took the time to spread out my belongings–clothes, backpack, and sleeping bag–on stumps and tree branches to dry.
Meanwhile, I reviewed my map and determined to walk to the on-trail tent site located at mile 63.7, 17 miles away from where I was at Mt. Laguna Campground. I was at an elevation of 6,000 ft., and the day’s hike would drop me down to 3,500. The forecast called for sun and temperatures in the 60’s–a radical, wonderful, change from yesterday.
By mid morning, with pack on back–wet socks, gloves, and bandana safety-pinned to the outside–I began my day of travel, immediately feeling hotspots on my heels from walking in wet shoes.
The trailhead was down the road from the campground, near a pull-off and observation deck. Due to yesterday’s obstructing storm, I didn’t see the views I had walked by, so when I reached the observation deck and saw huge tan mountains with no vegetation that lifted and dipped for miles like something from outer space, I was in awe.
About an hour later, after walking a brief stretch through broccoli-shaped bushes, purple nightshade, Indian paintbrush, and California poppies, the desert took over in all its dirt, rock, and utterly exposed splendor. I had been alone up until this point–mile 50–when a fast-walking fellow with a mullet, orange beard, wearing short purple shorts that barely covered his long legs, caught up.
“Feel free to pass me,” I said and stepped to the side of the trail.
“That’s okay,” he replied. “I need someone to slow me down.”
“Great,” I thought, “a clinger.”
And I was right, too, because over the next 3 miles the short-shorted hipster followed me and talked my ear off about his life as a long distance hiker and how he knew everything there was to know about backpacking, which, as it turned out, was one of the reasons he was on the trail these days: because, even though he could walk super fast, it was gratifying to slow down and share his knowledge with everyone he met. Then he tugged my shoulder strap to stop me and adjusted my pack straps for a better fit.
My pack felt more comfortable now, but I didn’t appreciate the forceful gesture, and when The Clinger said that the other reason he was on the trail was to find a little sturdy mountain lady to get hitched to, I nearly snapped back, “She’s not me!”
Thus, I was greatly relieved when we came upon a shady picnic area where a hiker I met in Mt. Laguna, named Lancelot, was resting. I walked right up to Lancelot while The Clinger was mid-sentence about finding our own spot. He got the hint, detached from me, and latched on to the next solo female who walked by.
At the picnic area I took off my wet shoes and socks to air out my feet and examine my worsening blisters. Lancelot–a lanky kid with a degree in astrophysics–looked at the swollen bulging blisters and said it was time for them to be popped.
“And I should know.” He said. “After all, I got my trail name because I’ve lanced a lot of blisters.”
He then said he popped 35 last summer that developed when he hiked the Colorado Trail, and they all went away. I pulled out my needle from my first aid kit.
Clear juice ran down my heels after I poked the blisters with the needle. Then came a fierce burn followed by a tingling sensation. I wrapped the wounds with duct tape then slipped on my shoes.
“Your feet will hurt the rest of the day but should callous by tomorrow,” Lancelot said.
He wasn’t kidding. My feet killed the next 12 miles to the point that I was walking on my toes as I entered the tent site.
The site was located in a lush valley between green mountains over which a purple sunset glowed. Several hikers were already there, huddled on logs around an unlit fire pit, talking politics and food. Among the hikers was my friend Kate (who now went by the name Saltlick) who I met in San Diego several days before and had been seeing on the trail ever since.
Saltlick–a traveling nurse by trade who had already bandaged a few injured hikers–ran up to me and asked how I faired in last night’s storm. I told her I made it through, and that my real struggle was with my popped blisters, that, to my dismay, had not calloused but returned fully loaded and ready to fight.
“It’s normal for blisters to keep coming back,” Saltlick said then advised me to keep popping them until they went away.
The next day I stuck with Saltlick, my blisters still painful and raw. There wasn’t a cloud in the rich blue sky, and the sun burned the air like fire as we walked deeper and deeper into the flaming desert vastness. Saltlick’s plan was to hitchhike to the Stagecoach RV Park 4 miles off trail once we made it to Scissor’s Crossing at mile 77. I decided to do the same when we reached the road that afternoon; for my throbbing feet had had enough.
This made for my first hitchhiking experience. And though we stood on a lone desert highway–the land before us yellow and bare–it didn’t take but a minute before a truck approached and thumbs went up, that Saltlick, two other hikers, and I were in a cramped cab being driven to the RV park, the wind blowing in our greasy hair.
Long story short, the RV park was a saving grace–an oasis–that lavished love on hikers by providing cheap cabins with beds, hot showers, free laundry, ice cream, and even a swimming pool. My battered feet felt better already after a shower and clean pair of socks. My antagonizing blisters met their match.
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Claire's first book on her adventures while living in Colorado can be ordered here:
http://www.amazon.com/51-Weeks-The-Unfinished-Journey-ebook/dp/B00IWYDLBQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1394801373&sr=8-1&keywords=51+Weeks
The welcome RV Park