It is my second to last day of hiking this section of Southern California, the section that will close the distance from the Southern Terminus to Green Valley. The section I did not finish last year. I camped at the Acton KOA last night and found it wanting. I rarely enjoy campgrounds or front-country camping. They are often plagued by road noise, trains that run all night long, generators, camp fire smoke and smelly outhouses or septic systems. I am out of there by 6:00am.

The hike becomes beautiful within a half a mile as I leave civilization behind. I revel in the birds’ morning chorus and find my rhythm in hiking. It is a gorgeous sunrise, as I climb into the foothills watching the tendrils of morning mist rising slowly out of the valleys. I am happy to be hiking alone to take all this in fully, to hike at exactly my own pace, to marvel at the beauty out loud and to stop abruptly whenever I needed to examine a flower or take a photo. Soon enough I cross another major freeway and enter the Vasquez Rocks area. PCT Southern California is never very far from a major freeway. You never know this from your car at 75mph, but there are tunnels under some of these freeways for wild life and hikers alike to cross safely. I pass through the dark stone tunnel alone noticing how creepy this would have felt last year when I was in such a different heart space and head space.

Rarely does the PTC go right through center of a town, but today the official route takes me into the unincorporated town of Agua Dulce. I am tired and hungry as I walk into the center of town feeling conspicuous, dirty and disheveled with my huge pack and hiking poles. I stop into the Rustic Mercantile which has a “Welcome PCT hikers!” sign out front, get a deli sandwich, a latte and an ice cream cone while I rest for an hour and talk with the incredibly friendly locals. There is a beautiful symbiotic relationship between hikers and local businesses along the PCT. If they choose to embrace us, which many do, there is the mutual benefit of meeting and learning about one another, an economic benefit to the shops and the town, and much needed resources for the hikers along the trail. This was a nourishing stop for me, and a really pleasant one.

By the time I walk out of Agua Dulce, my heart and stomach are full and my body feels much restored. I’ve met some lovely people on this northbound journey, and I just said goodbye to two of my favorite hiker friends at the Mercantile. These are people I like, people I would have gladly gone the distance with if I were going the full distance this year But I am a section hiker, and I only have 24 more miles to go. I start out slowly, feeling like I have eaten too much, but after an hour of hiking, I find that I am moving along briskly and feeling strong.

Near the end of the day, I come to a spring and pick up 5 liters of water. Its more than I will likely need, but I don’t know where the next water will be or even if there is any. The extra weight makes my feet hurt even more so I decide to camp 12.5 miles away from Green Valley at a sweet little spot just off the trail. I set up my tent, making sure it is well secured because the wind is picking up. There is still a splash of sunshine on my camp site, and I am able to make dinner in the sun, feeling warm and grateful. I take special pleasure in each of my tasks knowing this will be the last time I do them for… who knows how long. The simple rituals of daily life on the trail have become so grounding and enjoyable perhaps because the are so simple and so natural: Putting away the stove, wiping the pot dry and returning each part to its place. Sealing up trash in its zip lock and stowing it in the food bag. Washing my face and feet and putting on clean socks. Changing into my long underwear for sleeping and brushing my teeth. Filtering water for the following day and stowing my filter in the bottom of my sleeping bag so it won’t freeze. And best of all, crawling carefully into my tent and laying down on my air-filled mattress to write in my journal, check the route for tomorrow and listen to my audiobook as I let myself get sleepy.

There is an inherent care and tending of one’s gear that is necessary along the trail. If something breaks or malfunctions, it could be days or even weeks before you can get an adequate replacement, as I demonstrated to myself on the first night of this trip by letting my water filter freeze. Each object I carry has been carefully curated for this journey, and I have been gratified and deeply grateful that my gear has performed as well as it has done. I feel I have a relationship with my gear. I take excellent care of it, and it performs its function for me day after day, mile after mile. Even my air filled sleeping pad has not punctured in 2,500 miles! The simple rituals of care and tending of my gear have become a mindfulness practice in and of themselves. Anything extra that is carried quickly becomes a burden not only because of the extra weight and space it takes up, but because it has to be unpacked and repacked every day. The general rule is that you get one luxury item. This year mine was crochet

I did not make much time for formal meditation practice on the PCT this year or last year. Rather, the whole trip became a mindfulness practice. The simple physicality of hiking all day every day and learning how to take care of my body in these circumstances is a constant home-coming to the present moment. What is that sensation? Does it need my attention or can I just walk through it? Have I had enough to eat and drink? Am I alert enough to cross that section of eroded trail? Not to mention the constant checking in with my mind-state and emotions. What are my thoughts doing? Is this useful? And what is happening in my environment? Is this still the trail or did I walk off the back of a switchback? What bird is singing now? How are the plants changing as I move through the landscape? And constantly breathing and feeling the breath in the body, letting it deepen, feeling it quench the body’s thirst for oxygen like a cool drink of water.

I am sound asleep before it is fully dark. Sometime around 1:00am, I wake to the sound of rain pattering on my tent, so I sit up to make sure the door is secured and my shoes are under the tiny rain vestibule. I am able to fall back asleep easily but wake over and over to the gentle pitter patter which always makes it seem like its raining much harder than it really is.

In the morning when its time to get up and break camp, the rain has paused, so I am able to pack up and leave camp feeling warm and dry. Soon, the air begins to feel heavy with mist which turns to rain and then to cold slushy snow as I hike toward Green Valley. I put on my pack cover, then my rain coat and then put up my umbrella. The temperature is dropping, and I am hiking as fast as I can just to keep warm. The muddy trail becomes dangerously slippery in places with rivulets of water cascading across the trail. How unexpected! This is usually a long waterless section, and here I am plagued by too much water. My feet are soaking wet as are my mittens, my socks and my entire legs.

Finally, I see the sign that tells me that the Green Valley fire station is only 1 mile away. I do not go visit last year’s camps site, as I thought I would do, or even take a photo since I can barely get my hands out of of my mittens. I begin my road walk to town, just as I had last year, except soaking wet and with teeth chattering when an old car pulls up next to me and an unfamiliar man rolls down the window and says “Get in, I’m from the Smokehouse”. I had heard of the Smokehouse, a local restaurant that caters to hikers. I wasn’t necessarily going to go there, but I get in anyway, and I’m so glad I did.

Waiting for me at the Smokehouse is hot coffee, plenty of food and about 20 other hikers also trying to warm up and dry off. The most important of these other hikers is Bootstrap, my friend from last year way up in Washington. I knew he was on trail finishing up his un-hiked miles from last year, but I had not been able to catch up with him, and it was starting to look like I would not see him all. But there he is in his yellow T-shirt with a big plate of food in front of him and a huge friendly smile on his face. We talk about how different this year has felt compared to last year’s PCT and both acknowledge that much of that difference may be the lens we are looking through. I know my lens had been fogged in by grief and loneliness last year. We reminisce about the time we spent together early in our SOBO journey last year when we were both newbies on the trail. We had often hiked alone but met up at night to camp together. We had shared our doubts about being able to make such a long journey, and worked out our glitches in gear, food, and the great unknown of it all. We had both been slow to take on trail names, preferring to fully inhabit our own true identity. And then he tells me that one of his favorite memories from last year was the evening we had shared poetry by the shores of Shoe Lake with our two young Canadian friends Jack and Ellie. He had decided to memorize the verse he shared with us that night, and he recites it to me right here at the Smokehouse table amidst the hum of conversations and clinking coffee cups.

Reconnecting with Bootstrap, one of my first and favorite trail friends from last year, felt like coming full circle on this journey. It was the perfect way to complete my PCT.