Words and Photos by Izzy "Spoons" Tonneson @izzytonneson
“It’s only insanity if you fight it,” a trail angel told me as we bumped along the winding mountain road from Idyllwild back to the Pacific Crest Trail. I am almost three weeks into my Calendar Year Triple Crown attempt, and already, “insanity” is probably the most apt word to describe my first ~500 miles.
The desert has not been kind. April was unusually hot and dry, and I began this stretch of trail in the grip of a heatwave. Shade was a rarity, and trees were infrequent, except for the occasional scraggly, aspirational bush, casting shadows that were too small to matter. By my fourth day, I descended toward Scissors Crossing, not far from the trail town of Julian. The temperature hovered around 95 degrees. But I pushed through nearly 26 miles beneath the unyielding sun, driven by the singular promise of a burger in town (I’m highly food-motivated). By the time I hitched into Julian, I was overheated and exhausted. I found a trashcan, filled it with ice and cold water, and climbed in, rehydrating like a wilted plant.
Insanity.
By the time I reached town, the damage was clear. I was covered in heat rash, chafed raw in too many places to count, and sporting the most outrageous sock tan of my life. A makeshift trashcan ice bath, a burger, and a slice of Julian’s famous pie later, and I reevaluated my approach. I made a decision: from then on, I’d hike mostly in the dark.
For the next hundred miles, I adopted a new routine. I woke up at 4:30 am, packed quickly, and was moving by 5:00. I’d hike about 15 miles through the cooler morning hours, then take shelter during the heat of the day—an enforced siesta from 11 am to 5 pm. When the sun dipped low, I’d hike again, from 5:00 to 9:30 pm, finishing the day under the stars. For the first few weeks, I aimed to cover ~26 miles per day to stay on track with my long-term goal. The shift worked. It wasn’t easy, but it kept me moving forward.
Insanity.
Around mile marker 410, I found myself without cell service in the San Gabriel Mountains, which crest Los Angeles County. Sitting at a picnic table around sunset, I was cooking dinner over my small Jet Boil stove. Then, I heard a noise from up the hill, a high-pitched yip. Was it a bird? No–too loud to be one. Too bellowed and large to be a chipmunk or squirrel. I’d heard this sound before, but it took me a moment to place it.
A few seconds later, another high-pitched yip echoed from about 100 yards behind me. I spun around, trying to make out what it was, but I couldn’t see anything. Back and forth, the two animals yipped, screeched, and whined like THIS. I went to shovel a bite of dinner into my mouth when I paused—mouth half open, spoon poised. I put the spoon down. It hit me. These were two mountain lions. My tent and picnic table were perfectly in the middle of their territory. I was eating my dinner, but the nagging thought that I might soon become theirs had started to settle in. Mountain lions are ambush predators known for stalking their prey and attacking in their sleep. If I packed up and continued to hike on, I risked being followed by not one but two mountain lions.\
I glanced around my tent site, which, as luck would have it, was part of a parking lot, with a small outhouse just a short walk away. I decided to survey the scene. The outhouse actually had toilet paper and hand sanitizer, which is more than 95% of the privies on the Appalachian Trail can say. I’d give it 6/10 on the nasty scale. Honestly, I’d seen worse. I thought of the Idyllwild trail angel’s quote, “It’s only insanity if you fight it,” and sighed. Here was my new tent site.
As the sun set, I cozied up on the outhouse floor with the door shut. I usually keep an N95 in my med kit for bad air quality, typically due to wildfires, but I put it on because I think this situation qualifies as bad air quality, too. “I love backpacking. I LOVE backpacking. I LOOOOVEEE backpacking,” I chanted to the pit toilet, trying to gaslight myself into joy. Meanwhile, I could’ve sworn I heard a faint purring sound from outside the door.
Perhaps the real “insanity” of my time on the PCT is neither the heatwave nor the two mountain lions (I have started referring to the whole ordeal as “Outhousegate”). Perhaps the real insanity is that despite these early challenges, I’m still having fun. As I start to move out of the desert, there are rumblings among the hikers about the High Sierra. Infinite water, they say. Stunning views, they say. Bring an ice axe, they say. You can day hike Mt. Whitney, the tallest peak in the lower 48, they say. I’m ready for the High Sierra and for whatever insanity this next section brings.
