Skywalker--Highs and Lows on the Pacific Crest Trail by Bill Walker Page A

whole bubble of thru-hikers had already passed through Idyllwild. I would now be hiking alone in the desert.

Chapter 13
    Comeback
     
    Of all the kinds of silences—the stillness of snowfields—none is as total as the desert. It is the hush of antiquity.
    The High Adventure of Eric Ryback
     
    T he silence was deafening. It was the middle of the day with the temperature well over 100 degrees. My foot, while not completely healed, actually felt pretty good for “regular” life. The calluses wouldn’t be completely grown back for another few weeks. But it was only going to get hotter in the desert. So I had heavily taped up my feet, packed up my backpack, popped some Advil, and hitched back to the trailhead after seventeen days in Idyllwild.
    To the left, right, straight ahead, and behind was a scene of monolithic desert—brown, sandy dune hills with chaparral bushes. The austere landscape matched my mood.
    Jack London had vividly written about the Alaskan Yukon:
    A vast silence reigned over the land. There was a hint in it of laughter, but a laughter more terrible than any sadness. It was the masterful wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life.

     
    Timeless desert scene
     
    The Alaskan back country and the desert, of course, couldn’t be more different. But they did have one thing in common. They were inhospitable to humanity to the point of downright mocking us. I wasn’t scared, but rather in a sort of low-grade depression. At times like this you have only yourself to fall back on, and it’s best to stick to fundamentals. I concentrated on taking measured, cautious steps in my new Vasque Size 15 trail shoes. They were big to be sure, but I was wearing two pairs of wool socks (hikers should never, ever wear cotton) to help fill them up and cushion the impact on my feet.
    In some basic ways this was a purer than normal outdoor experience for me. I had no idea how far I was going to go today, where I was going to camp, and no expectations of any human encounters. I was just going to follow this 2 ½ foot-wide trail through the desert and take what comes. On my back were about 45 pounds, including a week’s supply of food and five liters (almost 11 pounds) of water, the most I’d ever carried. Every time I heard the water sloshing around in my bottles, it reminded me they were my lifeline.
    I quickly became winded and had to take frequent breaks. At first I thought it was from the layoff, but actually the trail was climbing up to 7,000 feet and high desert. But with nobody to chat with, I kept the breaks short. By dark I had done about 15 miles, set up camp, and felt like a PCT hiker again.
    Unfortunately, when I got in my tent and removed all the tape and bandages from my feet, they were covered in black dirt. Further, the filth didn’t just cover the bandages, but reached under where the calluses had been. Infection. That was my greatest fear. I decided to use some of the precious water I had been carrying to try to clean the open wounds off. But it would be impossible to prevent it from happening again the next day in the grimy desert.

     
    Thru-hikers are renowned for breaking camp in the morning at breakneck speed. But now I had to carefully administer ointment, pads, and surgical tape to each foot in my tent before breaking camp. The balls of my feet where Renee had cut deepest were throbbing. That was bad news because day two is the key day when coming back from an injury.
    I focused on making every single step with as little pain as possible. Needless to say, that is a losing proposition. While rock-hopping on my heels across Holcomb Creek, I bought it— splash— straight into the drink. After quickly pulling myself out of the stream I thought, Hey, try to turn this into a positive. So I decided to take an extended break right there to soak my feet in this rare desert stream, hoping to numb them. However, the bees were utterly ferocious in the shade where I leaned on a rock. That was another