“On Kings and Angels”

After spending over a week in Big Bear, CA, dealing with the blood clot in my bladder, I made my way back south to San Diego, awaiting my VA urologist consult on Monday, July 7th.

The plan was to stay “on trail” as much as possible, to avoid lodging costs in San Diego and remain surrounded by nature vs. city life. Neither my psyche nor ego have adjusted well to hiking only 250 miles up the PCT from Mexico.

But I’ve been able to meet, or reconnect with, a number of awesome folks these past few weeks.

As a child of the 1970’s and a restrictive Mormon home, hitchhiking was a huge no-no growing up. My first experiences with it were as a missionary in the vast Brazilian Amazon from late 1989 to mid-1991.

We would regularly leave our house, walk onto the street or highway, and put our thumbs out. Pickup trucks were the norm in that region, so I spent a good amount of time having my short hair blown back by hot humid air.

As we arrived near our destination, one of us would slap the side of the truck and the driver would pull over. As we hopped out of the back, we’d give them a wave and yell “‘brigado!”

Easy-peasy.

Fast forward to 2017, when I picked it up again (see what I did there?) as a hiker on the PCT. Hikers regularly throw the thumb up attempting to get into or out of towns sometimes many miles from the trail, when shuttles or trail angels aren’t available.

I seem to be an easy call when drivers have to decide whether or not I’m a threat. Maybe it’s the grey hair, so I come off as a sexy elderly dude in distress, or more likely my perfect calves, but either way, I rarely have to make much effort.

During this latest stay in Big Bear, I would go on one- or two-mile walks with my trekking poles, just to keep moving and break up my day resting in bed. Four times in one week, women pulled over in front of me and asked if I needed a ride. I wasn’t even holding my thumb out.

Yep. The calves.

A man named Denny, close to my age, gave me a ride out of the mountains from Big Bear into Redlands. He was the third car to pass me as I held my thumb out on the highway.

Denny and I had a lively conversation about the PCT, my naval service, and current politics. He was headed down the mountain on a Costco run and took me to his favorite breakfast burrito spot nearby. We exchanged phone numbers inside the store and said our goodbyes. He’s texted a few times since, inquiring about my health. Super guy and an energy-boosting chat.

David Craig, a dear family friend since the mid-70’s when our family moved to Santa Ana from Los Alamitos, had offered to help any way he could when he read about my bladder fun on Facebook. He’s four years older than me, my sister Trilby’s age, but was always considered a friend to our whole family. I hadn’t seen him in person since my brother’s wedding reception in Laguna Niguel over 20 years ago.

He offered to come grab me and we spent over three hours catching up during the car ride from Redlands to Lake Morena, outside San Diego, where usually your first or second day on the PCT ends. I thought that would be a smart place to chill for a few weeks before my appointment - clean water, showers, a convenience store/malt shop with wi-fi up the street from the campground, and easy access to San Diego should any medical issues arise.

David and I spent another hour or so talking at the campground, then he headed back home to Orange County. I’m grateful for the chance to reconnect and share life lessons for a few hours. I still need to introduce him to Fogo de Chão. We’ll get there.

After a few days of slow, easy walks around Lake Morena, I became a bit restless and decided to hike towards Mount Laguna, knowing the six miles before any true climbing began were relatively benign. I hadn’t seen any blood in my urine for about a week at that point (still haven’t), so I made the move.

Also, that campground can get incredibly loud. People come in from San Diego - families mostly - in RV’s and large campers - seemingly intent on bringing the lot of their possessions with them. I don’t understand it. Why bother pretending to “go camping” if you bring your entire home with you? One night, an RV larger than most apartments I’ve lived in mounted a gargantuan flat-screen TV on its passenger side and played sports loudly until 10pm.

I don’t get it.

I made my way to the Boulder Oaks campground which boasts several potable water faucets, a restroom, equestrian stalls, and amazing campground hosts.

Tammy Ellis and her husband have run the site for over a year now. She’s a year older than me - we both graduated from high school in 1988 - and was a corpsman (medic) in the Navy years ago. She’s a wonderful conversationalist and we quickly became friends speaking at a picnic table in the PCT hikers’ camp area for hours both days I was there.

She knew all about rhabdomyolysis, the likely culprit and cause of the blood flowing into my bladder. Assuming that is the case versus something more concerning like an ulcer or tear, she provided a number of safe ways to mitigate the rhabdo and, even allowing for my age and two bouts with the condition - this year and in 2017 - felt like I could try again in the future. I’d need a much earlier start date to avoid hotter weather in the southern section of the PCT, more deliberate consumption of electrolytes before long climbs, fewer miles attempted daily (we DID come out of the gate hard and fast this year), and yes, hiking in the earlier morning hours and in the late afternoon.

If given the all clear by docs this month and if I wasn’t going to be in school in Bulgaria next year in March/April, I’d be applying for a permit to head NOBO (northbound) with David “Ghost” Phillips. Alas, he and his wife, Karen Ann, will have to make do with my multi-page list of eating spots from Mexico to Canada.

Tammy and her husband, also a corpsman, had been stationed at Kaneohe Bay, so we talked Hawaii plenty as well.

She has a true shaman quality about her. She’s incredibly connected to nature and animal life.

Near their RV at the camp entrance, she has a daily routine of laying out handfuls of shelled nuts for squirrels and chipmunks to devour. A few local ravens are her friends and she lays out two whole eggs near the same spot. A male raven swoops in, puts one in his mouth, then moves it a few feet away to feast. He cracks it open with his beak to eat-drink its contents, before scooping up the second egg in his mouth and flying it back to their nest for his wifey.

He usually “pays” Tammy with small pieces of bark or shiny objects he finds and drops them into a bucket near the eggs. Smart birds.

As she and I conversed at the picnic table one afternoon, a bee flew in and landed on her hand. I leaned back to avoid it and she just looked down at the bee crawling along her index finger and said, “Get your salt, little bee.” It did, then flew away.

Boom. What a fine example of a human being.

I still have a copy of John Steinbeck’s “Tortilla Flat,” after exchanging my James Patterson gift book for it in her small library exchange at the campsite. It’s set in Monterey and mentions Alvarado Street on the first page. Ah, memories.

I paid the $5 nightly fee for two nights camping at the site, even though the hiking “season” has unofficially passed. Tammy, after hearing about my plans to chillax on trail until my appointments were complete and I could leave for Bulgaria, recommended I try camping up at Mount Laguna, as it’s easily 15-20 degrees cooler than Boulder Oaks, plus the area atop the mountain provides more amenities.

She offered to drive me up the mountain and I covered her gas and a meal at the Frosty Burger in Pine Valley en route. We both ate large burgers, fries and sodas, plus I ordered a vanilla malt. They did me right with a solid addition of malt flavoring. Scrumptious.

She dropped me at the Laguna Mountain Lodge and Store and we exchanged contact info. I’ve since sent her a number of PCT-related posts and stories; she likes my “voice” and eagerly awaits the first book.

The general store/lodge in Mount Laguna has been run by brothers John and Tom McWay for 19 years. The store is a quick stop-in for hikers to resupply - food stuffs, some hiker tools, mountain merch, etc. - or rent a room for a night if they don’t want to sleep in the campground. Bathtub/shower, fridge and microwave, a small fan, queen-sized bed - 30 rooms that can fill up quickly during hiking season and during the summer months, although more so on weekends now.

This photo shows the type of terrain and forest growth I’m dealing with locally. I call them logging roads - locals come up and gather firewood with chainsaws during the day - but they’re mostly flat and smooth. The PCT intersects this road at the top of the photo.

I knock out 3-6 miles a day at a slow pace without my pack, communing with the squirrels, chipmunks, various birds (mostly woodpeckers), deer, lizards, and rattlesnakes.

Most days are 50’s to 70’s, now creeping into the 80’s, with breezes almost constantly through the trees.

I have the Burnt Rancheria campground nearby with restrooms, showers, clean water spigots, electricity for my phone and charging banks, and cell connectivity when the wind doesn’t knock out the T-Mobile tower.

Plus two restaurants: the Pine House Cafe & Tavern (run by a French couple) and The Outpost By Valley Farm, both excellent, tasty eateries. Almost no one technically lives on the mountain, but leases these spots from the Cleveland National Forest.

I head into the lodge about once a week to get a room, food supplies, and a hot meal or two.

Several times a day I encounter hikers on trail or in the campground and inevitably become a spokesperson for the PCT. Everyone has questions: Is it safe enough for my child to tackle after high school? How long are you out here? Bear, snake, mountain lion fears? Costs associated with the initial gear-up and weekly expenses? I should be getting paid for this kind of positive PR.

As I came into the store Monday around 10:30am, set on enjoying a room that night, they said the room would be ready at 2pm. I had some time to kill and decided to hitchhike down to Pine Valley and walk around, maybe get some pizza at one of their two main market spots.

I walked up the street a bit from the general store and stuck my thumb out. The highway traffic is pretty light during the week, maybe one or two cars every few minutes. Lots of motorcyclists enjoy racing through the mountain turns and curves, usually in duos or large groups, rarely solo.

A red convertible sports car approached with a young woman driving. She slowed and pulled up alongside me, asking where I was headed. I told her down the mountain and she winced, saying she was sorry, but she was going to the Pine House Cafe for a few hours. I nodded and told her no problem, thanks for stopping.

I knew the Pine House was closed Monday through Wednesday, but she was so confident in her plans that I figured she worked there or something.

The cafe is only a quarter mile up the road from the lodge. Not a minute or two later, she came driving back up, smiling. I smiled back and asked, “Closed? You seemed to know what you were doing so I didn’t waste time correcting you.”

She laughed and said, “Hop in.”

Amy Allinson, living in San Diego. She said, “I don’t start work until 2pm, so I thought I’d drive up and hang out in the mountains for a bit.”

The ride down into Pine Valley is 11 miles of windy, curvy, one-lane road. Mount Laguna sits at around 6,200 feet of elevation, Pine Valley at 3,700, so an approx 2,500 feet difference.

We pelted each other with quick questions and sound bites. She had tons of questions about the PCT and then my Navy years; I tried to answer the best I could while attempting to inspire her to get on trail and check it out for herself.

She was familiar with “Wild,” the Reese Witherspoon movie, but hadn’t read the book. As I spoke quickly in my responses, knowing the ride was only so long and we didn’t have much conversation time, I spat out highlights and notable points of interest. I spoke of the wildfires and how unpredictable they have become other than predictably happening annually.

Trail angels came up and I explained trail magic: anything that helps a hiker get to where they’re headed. Could be a meal, a ride, a few bucks, a cold soda or water….anything. She loved the concept and laughed at my declaration that she was now officially a trail angel.

I mentioned 2021 and (Bulgarian) Dobri’s visit where we avoided the fires north of Bishop, CA, by flying to Oahu and hiking there for 4.5 days before heading back to California. She laughed and said she had a Bulgarian friend who’d be the perfect one to go hike with on the PCT.

After a number of exciting bits about the PCT, Amy said, “Dang. You should write a book. I’D read it!” I told her I have almost 500 pages now.

Pine Valley is tiny. It’s a strip of stores, a motel, the burger joint, and a church or two. I had Amy drop me in the Mountain Market parking lot and we sat in the car under the shade of a tree for a minute while I encouraged her to make the time someday to get on trail; to either attempt the whole thing or take it on in sections.

I felt a bit stinky, as I was coming off six days in the woods and was feeling a little TOO much like an avalanche (see earlier post) than I liked, so I thanked her while starting to get out and grab my pack and trekking poles from her back seat.

I offered to give her $5 for the ride and she politely waved me off. She grabbed her phone and gave me the look waving her phone that meant “contact info.”

I gave her my Facebook info, explaining that I’m making a move to Substack soon, and she “followed” me as we talked. I mentioned the longer posts I’ve written about finding the deceased body on Forester Pass, river saves, etc. and told her to reach out at any time with questions if she decided to knock out a thru-hike in the future. She again mentioned her friend and said she’d seriously look into it and we waved goodbye.

Too cool.

I strolled the aisles of Mountain Market, a decent-size supermarket/deli run by an Iraqi-American family. I bought a few items I knew the store next to my cabin didn’t have and thanked the woman at the cashier stand with a “Shukran!” She smiled and tilted her head at me as if to ask how or why I did that and I told her I’d spoken with their son the week prior on a trip down the mountain. He had informed me that he was born here, but his parents had immigrated from Iraq. I told her I had been a linguist in the Navy and unfortunately Arabic and its many dialects had been too complicated for my feeble mind. She laughed.

I walked up the street and passed a locked hair salon and a fire station.

Another small market sits across the street from the Frosty Burger, both at the end of town near Interstate 8 heading into either San Diego or off to Arizona, depending on your travel plans.

The store is like a 7-11 with delicious pizza and sandwiches for sale. I ordered a 20-inch pepperoni pizza and asked the young woman making the pizza behind the counter if she knew when the hair salon opened. I noted that there were no hours listed in the window.

She asked, “Oh, Ginger’s place?”

I smiled and asked if there was more than one salon in town. Other than the one short main street, Pine Valley is mostly residences and ranches.

She said, “Yeah, okay, I see what you mean. I think Ginger does that by appointment only. You have to call her.”

I thanked her and said I’d figure out a haircut later. Wasn’t a priority.

I paid for my pizza, soda, brownie, and a turkey sandwich to-go. The older woman at the cash register had a bit of an accent and I asked where she was from.

“Iraq!” She said proudly. “I’m Chaldean! So is my husband. We own this store.”

I smiled wide and said, “Well, if my Hebrew was any better than it is, we could maybe converse a bit. I’ve met a lot of Chaldeans as an Uber driver around Los Angeles and San Diego. Hebrew is a linguistic offshoot of Chaldean. You call it Aramaic or Assyrian, right?”

She leaned back away from me and dropped her chin, looking at me like she was impressed. “Look at you! You speak Hebrew? You’re Jewish?”

I told her I wasn’t and said I’d been in the Navy for 20 years and worked in various languages, that I’d been to Afghanistan once and Iraq twice. She loved it.

I paid and went out front to sit at the cement picnic tables in the shade.

An older grey-haired man was sitting across from me at the other table, talking with what sounded like some kind of land assessor. She was talking about the Frosty Burger across the street and said, “So that’s your house next to the Frosty, with a large camper trailer in front, and the chickens in the yard?”

He replied in the affirmative, they clarified some questions she had, and she left. He turned to me, smelly and a bit grimey in my hiking clothes and hat, smiled, and said, “And who are you? You look like a hiker. But the PCT season is late and they rarely come through Pine Valley, they’re usually straight up the mountain to Mount Laguna.”

He had NO accent. The woman’s inside had been noticeable, but vague; I wouldn’t have been able to peg it as Chaldean.

He waved at me and said, “I’m Al. I own this store. My wife is working inside.”

I smiled, waved back, and said, “I’m Story. That’s my trail name on the PCT. You’re correct, the season has moved on without me. I met your wife and am waiting for my pizza. Your Yelp reviews praise your pizza and brownies, so I’m here to confirm. Al, if you don’t mind me complimenting you on your accent, I hear nothing. You sound to me like you’re from….well….California.”

He laughed and said, “I was born in Iraq in 1950. Moved to Dearborn, Michigan when I was nine. You remember the riots in the 60’s? 1969 was a violent time in Dearborn. I told my mother I was going to explore the US and made my way to San Diego. I called her soon after I got here and said I wasn’t going back to Michigan. Been here, other than vacations obviously, ever since.”

I laughed and said, “Nice! But San Diego isn’t Pine Valley. How’d you end up out here?”

He smiled and said, “Same thing. I left El Cajon and came through here on a trip to the mountains. This store,” he waved at the store we were sitting next to, “was for sale and I decided to buy it. You know, Story, I have a thing for clean restrooms. I feel like every store or restaurant should have clean restrooms available to the public. I hate it when I see ‘No restrooms’ or ‘No baños’ signs. This is a true rest stop. People have been driving out of San Diego for an hour or more, or worse, coming in from Arizona. We have gas. We have food. Great pizza. And clean restrooms with clean tiles.”

I smiled and nodded. “Awesome. Good for you.”

We talked for a few minutes about my language training in the Navy and Hebrew’s similarity to Aramaic. I told him that when I had watched “The Passion of the Christ” in the theater when it came out, I could almost understand the Aramaic throughout. Of course I also was very familiar with the English text of the New Testament and that helped immensely, but it felt like listening to Spanish or Italian as a speaker of Portuguese. I could follow along.

I explained my issues with the blood in the bladder and coming medical consults, that he may see me around town the next month or so.

The young woman from inside brought out a huge boxed pizza; I immediately realized that even as hungry as I was, I couldn’t eat all of it and would have to take most back up the mountain.

I offered him a slice and he politely refused. As we continued talking, a family pulled up and parked behind me. Mother, father, and four kids: three pre-teen boys and a tween girl. As they expressed their hunger vocally behind me, I turned around and said, “Excuse me. I know this sounds odd, but I just ordered this pizza and know I won’t be able to make a dent. If your kids would like some, please, take a few slices each. It’s no problem.”

They all playfully laughed at me as they walked by me towards Al. The mother thanked me and said, “That’s very generous, but we already have an order of pizza and sandwiches we’re picking up. And Al bought it all for us. He’s my uncle-in-law.”

The kids all surrounded Al, still sitting across from me at the other table, and gave him hugs. These were his grand-nephews and grand-niece.

Al looked at me and said, “That was very kind of you. You offered your food to strangers. Please let me return the kindness.”

He pulled out his phone and pointed across the street to the Frosty Burger. He said, “I own that, too. I know about you hikers and your magic. How people can help you. I’m buying your lunch over there. What do you want?”

I laughed heartily and said, “Al, that is very thoughtful, but did you just hear me?! Do you see this pizza?! I won’t be able to finish THIS!”

It was now maybe 11:30am and I knew my room atop the mountain wouldn’t be ready until 2pm. I told him as much and he countered with, “Okay. Perfect. Eat what pizza you can and we’ll bag up the rest for your trip back to the lodge. At 1:30 or so, go across the street and pick up your burgers.”

I laughed again and gave in.

He dialed a number on his phone and brought it up to his ear, nodding and winking at me.

He said into the phone, “Michelle! Hello. This is Al. I’m across the street. Around 1:30 I will be sending over my new friend….” and he looked at me again holding the phone away from his face as if not remembering my trail name.

“Daood,” I said. “Daood Al-Malek.”

It means King David in Arabic.

He laughed and winked at me, then put his phone back on his ear and said, “Michelle, I’m sending you a king. King David. He looks like a burger man….no….cheeseburger.”

I smiled wide and nodded.

He continued, “Give him two cheeseburgers and two….shakes or malts?”

I mouthed “malts” immediately.

He said, “Yeah, two cheeseburgers and two malts. Whatever flavors he wants. Put it on my tab. Thanks. Yes, 1:30 he’ll come over. Bye!”

He hung up and we both laughed. I thanked him profusely and wondered aloud how I was going to be able to sleep with all this food in my gut.

He said, “I take care of you hikers when I can.”

I explained that in each of my language courses at the Defense Language Institute, my class name had been King David in the language I was studying. Dahveed Hamelech, Le Roi Dahveed, El Rey Dahveed, and Daood Al-Malek. He got a kick out of that.

We talked for a few more minutes and his wife called him into the store.

As he walked by me, I put out my hand to shake and he stood there looking down at me as we shook hands for a moment. I thanked him again.

He said, “You know King David, speaking of kings, I was in Iraq during the revolution. It was terrible. You’re familiar with the Running of the Bulls?”

“In Spain. Yes. Never done it but I’ve seen footage.” I replied.

He continued, “Well, imagine all that chaos but with humans. Humans with rifles. Men shooting at humans as they run wildly through the streets.”

I winced and said, “I’m so sorry, Al. What a thing to witness. You were born in ‘50? That was 1958. You were just a child.”

He said, “Yes. July of 1958. A boy running through the streets filled with terror. Then I moved to America and experienced the ‘60’s. The rioting. The assassinations. Vietnam. Then wars in Iraq again. Now….Iran and Israel. Sometimes I ask myself: what am I doing here? What are we doing to each other?”

We both shook our heads solemnly.

He said, “My only answer? Make as much money as I can and help other people with it. Do my small part where I can. It was good talking with you today, King David. Good luck with your thingy,” he laughed, pointing to my groin, “and if I don’t see you again, good luck out there.”

I stood up and we shook hands. I thanked him again.

He later sent out some plates and a plastic bag to bag up the pizza leftovers.

Before I crossed the street at 1:30 to grab the burger order, I poked my head into the store and he was sitting near his wife at the cashier area.

I said, “Al, if you don’t mind me asking, what is ‘Al’ short for? Something in Arabic I imagine?”

He smiled and said, “Alfred. My parents assumed my siblings and I would end up in either Britain or America, so they decided to make that transition easier on us with Anglo names! I got Alfred.”

He shrugged. I laughed and said goodbye.

I crossed the street to Frosty Burger, as close to a ‘50’s burger joint as you’ll get. Bobby Vee was belting out “Take Good Care of my Baby” from the outdoor speakers. I knew the song well. Bobby was asked to replace Buddy Holly on that fateful tour in February of 1959. A bit saccharine and poppy for me compared to rock and roll, but he had a smooth voice and some catchy hits.

I spoke with Michelle at the order window and announced my presence as King. She laughed and said, “Al….he takes care of everyone he meets. You want the two cheeseburgers and what flavor on the malts?”

I asked for chocolate and….butterscotch. Delicious, both of them. Whipped cream on top. Pure heaven.

I asked if I could pay for fries and she said they already came with the meal.

When the order was ready, I then had to figure out how to get this all back up the mountain. Almost 2pm, it was close to 90 degrees in the sun.

I had my trekking poles, large backpack, the bag of pizza slices, and now a warm bag of burgers and fries plus two malts in a carry tray.

After putting the burger bag in the top of my pack, I worked my way down Main Street (Old Highway 80) towards the turn headed either up Sunrise Highway towards Mount Laguna or towards I-8.

I stopped under some shade and put one thumb out with a drink carrier holding the two malts in the other hand. I no doubt looked ridiculous.

Several cars decided against me as a good bet and then a woman pulled up and laughingly asked, “Where are YOU headed with all that?!”

I smiled and told her I was heading up to the lodge on Mount Laguna and would she like some malt? I said, “Al bought me all this after I already ordered pizza and I’ll work on it in my room tonight and tomorrow.”

She laughed and said she could get me to the turnoff, about a quarter or half mile up the road. She said, “Yeah, Al and his wife….good people. They’re the best.”

I got everything into her back seat, then held the malts on my lap.

In the minute it took us to get down to the turnoff, I must have charmed her enough (or she felt pity) because she said, “I’ll take you up the mountain.”

As we drove, she said she lived with her husband a few miles east on the 8. Her nearest neighbor was two miles away. I explained the PCT situation and that this had been my fourth attempt at a thru-hike.

She asked, laughing, “Why?! Why four times? I ask as a therapist. People who do challenging things intrigue me.”

I explained that I’ve always had a curious nature and always want to see what’s over the next hill or mountain. I get restless and abhor routine. I told her 20 years in the Navy helped that in terms of deploying around the world, but whenever I had office jobs, I’d go nuts.

She said her husband was a retired Navy reservist, a Master-at-Arms, a Chief.

I thanked her again as we neared the top of the mountain and asked if I could help with gas…..or did she want a free malt? Again, she declined and I explained trail magic and trail angels. She loved it!

She said she loved the idea of a tight “hobby community” like that where people look out for each other. I mentioned my favorite quote from Ram Dass: “We’re all just walking each other home.” I don’t think she’d heard of him before, but she dug the quote.

As we pulled into the parking lot at the general store, the McWay brothers were out on the porch talking and yelled out, “He’s back! And with….shakes?!”

I laughed and asked her name, still sitting in the car. She said it was Kisa and when I asked where it was from, she said, “My parents were weird. I don’t know.”

I shook her hand and thanked her for the trail magic.

She said, “Wait! So technically I’m a real trail angel now? Already?!”

I said, “Yep! Officially. I so declare.”

She laughed and drove off after I got my stuff out of the back and headed to my room.

Lots of good people out there, folks. Helpful, kind, generous, and both willing and needing to talk. To connect.

I wish we had more of them in government, eh?

I’ll update soon on the medical stuff and departure to Bulgaria.

Shaloha and Happy Fourth of July from Mount Laguna!

🤙🏻☺️🙏🏻❤️

Notes:

A tasty, unique brand of soda sold at The Outpost by Valley Farm across from the lodge.

My latest efforts at thwarting these pesky skeeters:

A sign across from the lodge/general store in Mount Laguna: