Saltlick and Pandora at Ziggy and the Bear’s
(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).
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“Now, ask yourself why you felt so compelled to get on board, to travel west, sailing the earth’s curve, the sun’s path.”
-Luci Shaw
At mile 210, after a valley trek through heavy wind and deep, loose sand, we made it to Ziggy and the Bear’s–Trail Angels who owned a house off Interstate 10 for the sole purpose of giving hikers a place to rest. The Tallyhos, a couple named Dunzo and Purple Princess, and I rung the bear shaped bell outside the wooden gate when we arrived. An elderly woman, Ziggy, greeted us, and as she allowed us entrance she asked that we wash our hands in the outdoor sink.
Hikers were only allowed to hang out in the backyard, but it felt like being inside with the ceiling-like tents and carpeted ground. Ziggy and the Bear had many rules–like, no foul language, and call your mother this coming Sunday for Mother’s Day–but it was a comfortable stop, and many hikers I knew, as well as those I did not know, were there lounging in beach chairs, doing laundry in the washtub, and searching through the Hiker Box for gear and food.
We stayed for a pizza lunch. While eating, I spoke with a girl named Gazelle who I hadn’t seen on the trail until now. Gazelle was tall and thin with long red hair and glowing white skin. She started the PCT five days after me and was putting in 25 mile days in order to be finished in a little over three months. Most people were putting in 17-20 miles each day at this point, so everyone Gazelle met she out-hiked, meaning she would probably never see them again.
Gazelle was young and determined, and I deeply admired her endeavor. However, when she saw the way the Tallyhos and I laughed together, I could see the look in her eyes like she was missing out.
That afternoon, the wind picked up and shifted like stormy waves as we walked through the Mesa Wind Farm and up San Gorgonio Pass. The steep pass burned my muscles as the wind knocked me about and flung stinging sand at my calves. But the golden peak view at the top was gratifying and grand. From there, the trail coiled down the mountainside through ongoing hills that lay in all directions like a potato sack. The wind was terrible through the hills; when I stepped around a switchback I leaned into the earth so not to be blown off the ridge.
By evening, we came to the Whitewater Preserve, a trout farm on the Whitewater River. The river was surrounded by a beach of smooth white stone and ran clear and full through the dry desert. The preserve–a place of draping sycamores and lush fields–welcomed hikers to camp beneath the bathrooms and allowed us to stick our weary feet in the wading pond where big trout swam. Jose the park ranger talked to us as we set up camp and said that tonight the wind would rise to 60 mph. We struggled to pitch tents and light stoves in the wind. Every shelter was double staked with heavy white rocks. The wind shook the trees and tarps all night long. It was like a baby crying all night long–harsh, incessant, and mentally draining.
The next morning, after a hard, sleepless night, the air was cool but calm. The hike that morning traveled atop a yellow grass ridge that gave way to silhouettes of silver peaks where clouds rolled through like visible breath. We dropped down to Mission Creek and breaked on the warm river rocks. Dunzo admitted to the group that while on the ridge amidst the majestic mountains, he cried because it hit him that this hard and beautiful journey wasn’t about who he was anymore, but about who he was becoming.
The rest of the day required navigation through overgrown grass and dry riverbed. I saw a gopher snake eating a bird, a roadrunner round up her hatchlings, two marmots chase each other, and a crow play with flight by gliding in the sunny breeze. I walked among natural order and no matter how difficult the trek, all was most well.
We camped that night at mile 235 above the creek. Among the group was Big Spoon, who arrived after dinner, and who had spent the last few days busting out miles to catch up. As the sun went down and the air turned very cold, he made a fire pit of stone down by the water then built a beautiful fire. The hikers gathered round, and Big Spoon sat next to me on a log while feeding the fire with twigs and bigger sticks. No one said too much. But it was wonderful to be surrounded by so much warmth.
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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
In the rocks