Journey Day 11 | PCT Day 11

Sporting “Brand-New Oregon Trail”

4/27/85

Awoke early. Call Mom. She was upset and harried over her garbage disposal breaking as I stood in a phone booth near some tiny Southern California town with no shelter but a tent. A bit ironic for me to deal with. But it was good to talk to her.

Texas girlfriend Mary not home for three calls. Friend Jack’s phone machine hung up me. So I headed back to bed. 

Up and into Anza. Luckily caught a quick ride with a long-haired mechanic. His truck broke down, but he caught us another ride into town. 

Walked to the barber shop where I was cut shorter than ever in my life it seemed by an old barber, while a fuzzy baseball game played on the TV. He said he “blazed a brand-new Oregon Trail” through my long hair. A driller talked to me as Jim cut and before I knew it my hair had been PCTed. 

Then I headed to the market for supplemental food, to Rudy’s for cheeseburgers and pie while reading the L.A. Times. 

Caught a ride back to Camp Anza with an American Indian woman we met in the Circle K. Back at the campground we broke down our supply box and repacked for the next stretch. We are somewhat blunted in our enthusiasm by the 1st stretch, which was a severe test.

Already we are talking of altering our plans. In fact we seemed to be backing away from our goal, although we did much better in the latter days. My knee worries me, Keith seems a bit worn by the rigors too.

Tomorrow we head out on a longer stretch than the first. But we are now section PCT hikers, aware of the greater extent of what lies ahead. We pray for good weather. As someone said to me in early planning, “The weather tells.”

More on Kamp Anza: 

Run by Terry and his wife, who escaped city life and hustle and bustle for this little piece of paradise. Six other businesses fall under their hands. She says it’s the only campground licensed by Sears as a catalog outlet.

In addition to Harris Johnson, this small camp had other characters. “Chief” drives a painted, old vehicle announcing its owner, a highly educated American Indian who visits the office-store. He is among those drawn to this center of activity and gathering place for many in the area.

Terry encouraged us to hitchhike the steep road to the path into the San Jacintos. “Stop to smell the flowers,” he said as he ran off to work. 

Drank with Harris Johnson in his trailer. The 72-year-old retired architect helped build Palm Springs in the 50s to the 70s. He gave us vodka and we had a long talk bridging the generation gap.