A DESERT OASIS
From my snowy perch two miles above Palm Springs, I read a letter sent from my uncle, who lives in one of the homes that twinkled on the desert floor down below. The letter from March 2016, which came with a book on the Pacific Crest Trail, reads in part, "I am passing this book along to you as an inspiration to take on a challenge... I hope you do what's right for you, and when you get to my age, you'll have no regrets." My uncle Bill was one of the first people to whom I mentioned the possibility of hiking the trail. And here I was, one day from seeing him and my aunt Phyllis, taking on the challenge he set forth more than a year ago.
It was a cold hike up to the summit of Mt. San Jacinto that day. The 10,800-foot peak, covered in pines and snow, has been a beacon for more than 100 miles. With every desert mountain we'd cap, in the distance was San Jacinto, teasing us with its alpine aesthetic—a taste of the Sierra to come. This was a wildly different climb than those of the last 12 days. With ice axes in hand and microspikes attached to our shoes, we gripped into the steep, slick, snowy, 3,000-foot final ascent in the morning. With so much snowpack, the switchback trails were hidden, forcing an improvised climb. But with improvising comes challenges, including postholing, where thin snow can give way and your legs can fall through. Many hikers have broken legs or overextended knees as a result. Luckily for the two of us who did posthole, the only injury was to our pride. After two hours and just 50 feet uphill from a small stone shelter with two bunk beds and emergency rations that expired decades ago, a wooden sign and a U.S. Coast and Geodetic Survey marker emblazoned the top of the exposed peak, with a 360-degree view of this pocket of Southern California. Looking south, our entire journey up to this moment—the fields of purple tall grass that moved like waves in the ocean; the canyon of boulders that looked as if each was placed by a giant; Mike's Place, the incredibly bizarre hiker oasis cushioned between two state parks equipped with an outdoor pizza oven; the sandy, porous cliffs with water lines falling like veins in an arm; and the desert hills of bushes, cacti, and wildflowers that roll back to the border. Looking north, our entire journey to come.
After a 7,000-foot descent the next day, down from the cool mountain air to the oppressive desert heat in manner of minutes, we were greeted by a seventy-something guy with a green ball cap embroidered with a ram's head, a red polo shirt, and a goofy smile driving in a white pickup truck: Uncle Bill. He also had a bag full of cold water bottles.
Bill Marchese, a former newspaperman and magazine editor, who still writes freelance stories when he can, has been a mentor to me during my journalism career. As he drove our crew of smelly, battered hikers from the trail to his house, we passed by the wind farm he took me as a college student so I could report on green energy for one of my first internships. Over the last decade, I looked forward to his emails, commenting, and sometimes critiquing, my work. He and his wife Phyllis, a high school geology teacher, have lived in Palm Springs for the last two decades, after stints in Alaska and Papua New Guinea. World travelers and outdoorsy folks, they totally get why I'm doing this hike. We've been on the trail for two weeks, walked 206 miles, and haven't slept in a mattress that required air or bathed in a proper shower in that time. The idea of a "zero"—a day off—sounded perfect. The fact that they had a pool, a grill, laundry, and a seemingly endless supply of Corona and margaritas didn't hurt.
There's something deeply comforting about being around family during a journey like this. Isolated in the wilderness, thousands of miles from home, physically and emotionally exhausted, can take its toll. But being around loved ones, even for a little while, can rejuvenate the soul and the legs. I saw it with Alex when his brother and sister-in-law visited us on Mt. San Jacinto, and I would experience the same feeling with the 36 hours I spent with my aunt and uncle. On Wednesday morning, our two-week anniversary on the PCT, Uncle Bill dropped us off at 4 a.m., early enough to beat the 100-degree temperatures of the desert floor. Walking north toward San Gorgonio Mountain, I was ready to continue the challenge my generous, adventurous uncle inspired me to take on in that letter.
