April 19 -- Day 2 -- Hauser Creek to Lake Morena campground

When I awoke, still filthy from the previous day of sweating and hiking in the dusty desert, I packed up all my wet gear, sucked down another bagel and some Carnation Instant Breakfast, and filtered several liters of water from the stream. The last thing I wanted to do was shoulder my pack and take off. Everything hurt -- my shoulders, my hips, my legs, and my feet. Lake Morena was only 4.5 miles away, but the first 3.5 miles were all uphill. The altitude was toying with me, too. I couldn't quite fill my lungs and catch my breath.

The trail was narrow and rocky and treacherous at times. I trudged like an old woman as my muscles begged me to stop. I didn't, because I wanted to reach the campground. I had to reach the campground. I had no other choice.

All who had camped at the creek were soon out of sight, and I hiked alone again. My thoughts and emotions were wreaking havoc in my head. I trudged along highly discouraged, contemplating my options. I kept telling myself, "You knew this would be hard. You knew you would suffer. Deal with it." But I didn't want to suffer. I didn't want to live through days and weeks and months of pain and distress. "But it will get better," my inner voice would say. Really, when? How many days of agony will I suffer before it becomes easy to hike up and down mountains all day long? What do I do until then? How to I handle the pain and discomfort until then? "You just do," says the voice. Why? Why would I do that to myself when I don't have to? And thoughts of a car trip through the state competed in my head. "You don't have to do this," was a recurring thought. "You can if you want, but you don't have to." My doubts grew exponentially as I hiked.

About two miles from the campground, I came across a day hiker out geocaching. He warned me that he had seen four rattlesnakes on the trial that morning, one with ten rattles. I thanked him for warning me and set off through the snake minefield, hyper-sensitive to any sound of a baby rattle attached to a venomous snake with fangs, poised to strike as I strode by. I never saw one, but knew they were around somewhere, watching me.

I made it to the campground around 11 am and found Deb in a campsite. Jan was there, too, waiting for me -- worried about me. Deb made me a veggie burger, and I felt instantly better. Not ALL BETTER, but better. I took a shower, too. And that was nirvana. I was clean. I like clean. Visions of car camping at campgrounds with showers filled my mind. Once again, I discovered that I was married to the luxuries of life -- like hot running water. It's hard for me to be filthy for days. I learned that on the bike trip. I was hoping I could deal with it.

I hung out at the campground all day, chatting with Deb, and others who were hanging out. We talked about my pack and my doubts and my pain and suffering. Lon (Halfmile), who has thru-hiked the PCT before, showed up around 6. He brought with him a weather report that was quite ominous. Rain was coming. So was snow in the higher elevations (which we would be at soon). The temps would drop by 15 to 20 degrees. Not pleasant.

I had hoped that Halfmile would pick through everything in my pack and help me eliminate things I absolutely did not need in an effort to lighten my pack. But he didn't. He gave me a few suggestions, but that was about it. One of his suggestions was to ditch my tent for a poncho that I could string up and sleep under. It sounded extremist, but I know other people do it. I just don't like mosquitoes biting me all night, and ants crawling all over me while I sleep. I thanked him for considering my situation, then I went to bed. I laid there, again, contemplating my options. I was filled with self-doubt and highly discouraged. I did NOT want to get up in the morning, put on my heavy pack and trudge off up the trail with a storm coming.