funnel right in the middle, and started pumping.
Despite its relative simplicity, the low desert wears its own veil of mystery.
“Life is not crowded upon life as in other places,” wrote Edward Abbey, in his classic tome, Desert Solitaire, “but scattered abroad in spareness and simplicity, with a generous gift of space for each herb and bush and tree. Abbey staunchly maintained that, in fact, there is no shortage of water in the desert. There was just the right amount of water to insure open, generous spacing between plants and animals, and even homes, towns, and cities. The problem came, according to Abbey, when you built giant cities where they shouldn’t be (sorry Las Vegas and Phoenix!). This growth for the sake of growth was a cancerous, obsessive, madness.
Abbey, himself, had been a park ranger and probably knew of water sources in the desert that no other human did. But he also said that there were magical springs that only animals knew. At night the mammals came—first deer, next bobcats, followed by cougars, and finally coyotes—to drink, not to kill.
Later in the day, I dropped to the desert floor for the first time. There stood the most well-known symbol of the desert—the cactus bush. It’s the toughest, most well-fortified plant imaginable, and I could only guess how long each one has been standing. Perhaps centuries; perhaps millennia.
I had been alone the last few hours, but as the sun fell I ran into an attractive Canadian girl setting up her tent just off the trail. What is it about these trails that all the girls are so attractive? Maybe it was because the PCT had only one girl for every four guys (The AT was probably 2.5 to 1). I honestly don’t know. In any event, this was the same girl whose tent I had accidentally poked my head into last night at the Pioneer Mail Trailhead, thinking it was St. Rick’s tent. So she must have been wondering just who the hell this peeping hiker was who always turned up, wherever she happened to be, at bedtime.
“Kinda’ cool the way you can just pull off to the side of the trail here in the desert and set up camp,” I said.
“Yeah well, I seem to remember some ridges,” she laughed. There was a spot right next to hers to set up my tent. Having already hiked twenty miles, I thought about it. But I decided otherwise. Hike your own hike was the fundamental paradigm amongst hikers. So I headed on.
The most pleasant hour in the desert is at sundown, after the awful heat of the afternoon. The sinking desert sun resembles a flaming globe and leaves behind fanciful lipstick sunsets. It was very pleasant following the trail as it serpentined through countless cactus bushes. A few minutes before dark, I simply pulled five yards off the trail to set up camp. I did have one concern, however.
There were holes everywhere. Rattlesnakes. So I wandered around grabbing big rocks to put over all the nearby holes, marveling at my improvisation. However, somebody later told me this wouldn’t thwart a determined snake from surfacing.
“How do rattlers get water in the desert?” I had asked.
“They burrow down in the holes and drink the blood of the rodents they find down there.” This was the time of day they liked to emerge.
Sleeping near snake holes is simply a fact of life in the low desert though, and I occupied myself in my tent pulling scores of burrs out of my socks.
Chapter 9
Caches, Ledges, and Trail Repartee
T en by ten was the thru-hiker’s motto in the desert. The idea was to try to hike ten miles by ten o’ clock in the morning, then maybe eke out a few more miles before noon. At that point a hiker should spend several hours under any possible shade he or she can find. The reasoning was that you used up so much water during the middle of the day, that the miles you gained from it aren’t worth it. Then, at 4:00 or so, you should resurrect yourself and hike until dark. It made sense. But would I really want to just lie under some bush for
Despite its relative simplicity, the low desert wears its own veil of mystery.
“Life is not crowded upon life as in other places,” wrote Edward Abbey, in his classic tome, Desert Solitaire, “but scattered abroad in spareness and simplicity, with a generous gift of space for each herb and bush and tree. Abbey staunchly maintained that, in fact, there is no shortage of water in the desert. There was just the right amount of water to insure open, generous spacing between plants and animals, and even homes, towns, and cities. The problem came, according to Abbey, when you built giant cities where they shouldn’t be (sorry Las Vegas and Phoenix!). This growth for the sake of growth was a cancerous, obsessive, madness.
Abbey, himself, had been a park ranger and probably knew of water sources in the desert that no other human did. But he also said that there were magical springs that only animals knew. At night the mammals came—first deer, next bobcats, followed by cougars, and finally coyotes—to drink, not to kill.
Later in the day, I dropped to the desert floor for the first time. There stood the most well-known symbol of the desert—the cactus bush. It’s the toughest, most well-fortified plant imaginable, and I could only guess how long each one has been standing. Perhaps centuries; perhaps millennia.
I had been alone the last few hours, but as the sun fell I ran into an attractive Canadian girl setting up her tent just off the trail. What is it about these trails that all the girls are so attractive? Maybe it was because the PCT had only one girl for every four guys (The AT was probably 2.5 to 1). I honestly don’t know. In any event, this was the same girl whose tent I had accidentally poked my head into last night at the Pioneer Mail Trailhead, thinking it was St. Rick’s tent. So she must have been wondering just who the hell this peeping hiker was who always turned up, wherever she happened to be, at bedtime.
“Kinda’ cool the way you can just pull off to the side of the trail here in the desert and set up camp,” I said.
“Yeah well, I seem to remember some ridges,” she laughed. There was a spot right next to hers to set up my tent. Having already hiked twenty miles, I thought about it. But I decided otherwise. Hike your own hike was the fundamental paradigm amongst hikers. So I headed on.
The most pleasant hour in the desert is at sundown, after the awful heat of the afternoon. The sinking desert sun resembles a flaming globe and leaves behind fanciful lipstick sunsets. It was very pleasant following the trail as it serpentined through countless cactus bushes. A few minutes before dark, I simply pulled five yards off the trail to set up camp. I did have one concern, however.
There were holes everywhere. Rattlesnakes. So I wandered around grabbing big rocks to put over all the nearby holes, marveling at my improvisation. However, somebody later told me this wouldn’t thwart a determined snake from surfacing.
“How do rattlers get water in the desert?” I had asked.
“They burrow down in the holes and drink the blood of the rodents they find down there.” This was the time of day they liked to emerge.
Sleeping near snake holes is simply a fact of life in the low desert though, and I occupied myself in my tent pulling scores of burrs out of my socks.
Chapter 9
Caches, Ledges, and Trail Repartee
T en by ten was the thru-hiker’s motto in the desert. The idea was to try to hike ten miles by ten o’ clock in the morning, then maybe eke out a few more miles before noon. At that point a hiker should spend several hours under any possible shade he or she can find. The reasoning was that you used up so much water during the middle of the day, that the miles you gained from it aren’t worth it. Then, at 4:00 or so, you should resurrect yourself and hike until dark. It made sense. But would I really want to just lie under some bush for
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