June 1, 2013
8 miles today
Mile 558

The beginnings of the sun gave a shout. Ate the last of my food and downed some water obtained from the last water cache. A critical cache set up on a very dry section of train, it is stocked by the kind Messrs David and Larry of Tehachapi. Good on them.

On the move by 6:15 a.m. we made out way downward toward the desert and Mojave, cutting through high plateau forests scarred by fire and dirt bikes. Our old friend the poodle bush reappeared and gave an enticing bark. Background scenery was provided by the mushroom cloud of the now-named Powerhouse Fire. Its appetite still unsatisfied at 3600 acres. Nine hundred firefighters made it their business to murder Mr. Powerhouse.

The path sucked through an endless number of wind turbines. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh as they beat the air, so far responsible for the deaths of 200 plus eagles, as they scan the ground and not the air when they fly. Which one, my fellow environmentalists, clean energy or eagles? I want to look at my cake. I want to devour my cake.

After eight miles, we arrived low. A confession. I went to Junior High and High School in the unloved burg of Mojave. It is said that Mojave High doesn’t bother to have reunions because the escapees would never return and the trapped don’t like ot talk aoub ti. The path of life is twisted through and I find myself looking forward to the homecoming. My ex-teacher and current friend, Jim O’Donnell is waiting at the trailhead, as is au-natural hiker. This good soul is still dishing out root beer floats in his sexy mini.

Mojave is still there, even more reluctant to look in the mirror. A freeway bypass seems to have shrunk the town, but like a brawler with a sub 500 record it swings on. We stop for donuts in a shop that was the Mojave library. Across the street is one of my father’s churches. As I listen to Mr. O’Donnell’s stories, through the din caused by passing trains, I am content.

Another hiker arrives at the donut shop and announces that although their website say otherwise, the Mojave post office is closed Saturday. My bounce box is there which makes this development unfortunate. It is, however, small town America, one of which I live in during the seventies. Return to said post office. Bang on door until head appears. Find right combination of words for that head to compassionately receive my needs, wants and desires. Wait patiently for breach in parameter security. Door opens. Receive said bounce box. Thank profusely. Mojave is a great town.

A text arrives. Orbit and Doc have hitched to Hiker Town and burning out a thirty-plus mile day in order to catch up. Will reunion at the trailhead sometime late evening. All goes according to plan and by 10:00 Orbit and Sons is back in action.

The conversation was good as we sat in front of Mr https://mannapotheke.de/cialis-generika/. O’Donnell’s trailer and caught up under a smoke-hazed moon. Soon the long day made its demands on us all and we laid down where we conversed. Alone to my thoughts, I tried to figure out why I loved the thrill of natural disasters so much, because I so hated their effect. But I didn’t get far as sleep held the stronger hand. Mr. Powerhouse, however, decided to skip sleep and continue to feed.

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde

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