Skywalker--Highs and Lows on the Pacific Crest Trail by Bill Walker Page B
Authors: Bill Walker
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knit foursome. Unlike most groups, they appeared to have what it took to stick together. For starters, there were two guys and two girls.
The males, Dirk and Snake Charmer, were both west-coasters in their late thirties. The two girls, Laura, a charming mid-thirtyish lady from London, and Ingrid a tall, graceful German girl in her late twenties, were both plenty attractive. No matter what somebody might try to tell you, that helps maintain group unity. I sound like I know what I’m talking about on this topic which, of course, I don’t. But in this case the results speaks for themselves. They’d been together since the Kickoff, despite having very different hiking styles and speeds.
They had been so sequestered, in fact, that I was even reluctant to broach the subject of hiking out with them this morning. Finally, I just started walking along into the Mojave with them. I was soon glad I had.
We arrived at a confusing maze of dirt roads that all looked the same. A group the previous day had missed a turn here and ended up twenty miles off course (Perhaps not so coincidentally, it was the same group that had Big Dick so stoked up about rocking his RV’s the previous night). Fortunately, one of the German girl Ingrid’s many talents was map reading, and she figured out which direction we should head.
The Mojave is basically a desert floor and utterly featureless. For mile after mile we walked in an arrestingly ugly landscape. For the most part, it was the easiest possible place to hike, despite hikers carrying up to 7 liters (15 pounds) of water. Some people had been talking for weeks about night-hiking all the way through it. However, a heavy cloud cover was to hold the entire time we were in the Mojave. Instead of burning up, I struggled to stay warm.
The sole aesthetically appealing feature I could notice was the Joshua trees (named by the early Mormon settlers after the prophet, Joshua). These sturdy green trees with sharp, spindly branches are indigenous to the Mojave and often marks its boundaries.
The only human construction in this entire milieu may have been the ugliest thing of all. I refer to the closed aqueduct piping system that runs for 223 miles through the desert. It contains the water supply for the city of Los Angeles. Quite a story lies behind it.
A long-living urban legend has it that Los Angeles stole its water. That is not true. Technically, it’s not anyway. The city stayed within legal bounds at all times. But make no mistake—through secrecy, guile, subterfuge, and all the rest, the city pulled off something akin to the world’s second oldest profession in pursuit of the I.
In the late 19th century, San Francisco was the closest thing the United States had to sophisticated European splendor. Los Angeles was far behind and chafed at its second-class status. Its population had finally begun catching up, though. In fact, L.A.’s population was doubling every five years. However, future growth of the city faced one huge roadblock—lack of water.
The fundamental problem was that most of the water in California lies in the northern part of the state. The massive amounts of precipitation off the Pacific Ocean collide with the western slopes of the Sierras. It’s not uncommon to have 100 inches of snow on one side of the mountains and less than ten inches only fifty miles away. San Francisco, but not Los Angeles, has easy access to most of these swollen rivers flowing to their Pacific outlets.
Unfortunately, on the eastern side of the mountains, the few rivers that flow are usually much less substantial. There is one exception. Let me rephrase that; there I one exception—the Owens River.
Just south of Yosemite, there is a break in the Sierra chain. The monstrous snowfalls that normally collide with the western banks of the Sierras come barreling through this gunshot pass, creating a rushing river flowing south through the Owens Valley. The lake into which the river empties—or, I
The males, Dirk and Snake Charmer, were both west-coasters in their late thirties. The two girls, Laura, a charming mid-thirtyish lady from London, and Ingrid a tall, graceful German girl in her late twenties, were both plenty attractive. No matter what somebody might try to tell you, that helps maintain group unity. I sound like I know what I’m talking about on this topic which, of course, I don’t. But in this case the results speaks for themselves. They’d been together since the Kickoff, despite having very different hiking styles and speeds.
They had been so sequestered, in fact, that I was even reluctant to broach the subject of hiking out with them this morning. Finally, I just started walking along into the Mojave with them. I was soon glad I had.
We arrived at a confusing maze of dirt roads that all looked the same. A group the previous day had missed a turn here and ended up twenty miles off course (Perhaps not so coincidentally, it was the same group that had Big Dick so stoked up about rocking his RV’s the previous night). Fortunately, one of the German girl Ingrid’s many talents was map reading, and she figured out which direction we should head.
The Mojave is basically a desert floor and utterly featureless. For mile after mile we walked in an arrestingly ugly landscape. For the most part, it was the easiest possible place to hike, despite hikers carrying up to 7 liters (15 pounds) of water. Some people had been talking for weeks about night-hiking all the way through it. However, a heavy cloud cover was to hold the entire time we were in the Mojave. Instead of burning up, I struggled to stay warm.
The sole aesthetically appealing feature I could notice was the Joshua trees (named by the early Mormon settlers after the prophet, Joshua). These sturdy green trees with sharp, spindly branches are indigenous to the Mojave and often marks its boundaries.
The only human construction in this entire milieu may have been the ugliest thing of all. I refer to the closed aqueduct piping system that runs for 223 miles through the desert. It contains the water supply for the city of Los Angeles. Quite a story lies behind it.
A long-living urban legend has it that Los Angeles stole its water. That is not true. Technically, it’s not anyway. The city stayed within legal bounds at all times. But make no mistake—through secrecy, guile, subterfuge, and all the rest, the city pulled off something akin to the world’s second oldest profession in pursuit of the I.
In the late 19th century, San Francisco was the closest thing the United States had to sophisticated European splendor. Los Angeles was far behind and chafed at its second-class status. Its population had finally begun catching up, though. In fact, L.A.’s population was doubling every five years. However, future growth of the city faced one huge roadblock—lack of water.
The fundamental problem was that most of the water in California lies in the northern part of the state. The massive amounts of precipitation off the Pacific Ocean collide with the western slopes of the Sierras. It’s not uncommon to have 100 inches of snow on one side of the mountains and less than ten inches only fifty miles away. San Francisco, but not Los Angeles, has easy access to most of these swollen rivers flowing to their Pacific outlets.
Unfortunately, on the eastern side of the mountains, the few rivers that flow are usually much less substantial. There is one exception. Let me rephrase that; there I one exception—the Owens River.
Just south of Yosemite, there is a break in the Sierra chain. The monstrous snowfalls that normally collide with the western banks of the Sierras come barreling through this gunshot pass, creating a rushing river flowing south through the Owens Valley. The lake into which the river empties—or, I
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