Ow.

I spent this weekend in the mountains. There's a camp near a spring called Little Jimmy we went to last year. It's on the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), if you're familiar with that. (If not, see here.) Little Jimmy has some of the most delicious water I've ever had. It's just a little artesian spring in the side of Mt. Islip, not far from Azusa, California. Not far as the crow flies, anyway.

This might be a good time to point out that I am not a crow. Directly between the spring and the town are a small lake, two reservoirs, several foothills and a road or two, none of which connect to it. The Crystal Lake trail does connect to the PCT, but it's not a short stroll. The shortest ways to hike in come from going all the way around the ridge on Angeles Crest Highway, which is almost far enough north to be in California's Central Valley. Last year our group of intrepid backpackers came in from the little parking area a couple of miles northwest of the campground, and it turned out to be a bit of a rough start. It's quite steep, especially at the beginning. This time we stopped at a turnout that promised to be a lot closer, especially when viewed in the satellite images.

Note: I am also not a satellite.

The route we took to the camp site began with a fairly steep trail that soon turned into a very steep trail. The early autumn sun was approaching the horizon, and between us and that horizon was a lot of mountain. We ascended as quickly as was reasonable and recovered briefly at the top, a saddle called Windy Gap, before slogging the rest of the way to the camp site. Yes, it was better than the northwest route. No, it was not pleasant at all. The parking spot's altitude is about 7200', almost a mile and a half above sea level. My lowland lungs were not remotely prepared for that, especially considering the fact that we'd been warned of the spring possibly being dry at the moment. I ascended with about 10 pounds of water as well as the rest of my equipment. Egad.

It happened that Little Jimmy was flowing at its usual merry pace, so no return for more water was needed, though the next day did involve a lot of rehydration.

Little Jimmy Trail Camp is a lovely site, fairly primitive, with latrines, fire circles, tables, and stone stoves. It's tended by means of a road that meets the highway not far from our original trailhead, and I have to wonder if that wouldn't be a more leisurely way to get there. In any case, for a place that I've made sound inaccessible, it gets a fair bit of (foot) traffic. We've never had any trouble getting a good spot or gathering wood, though.

The next day was mostly absorbed in a hike to Mt. Baden-Powell. The trail is listed as "strenuous", and I agree. It ends at 9400' of elevation, but because there is a certain amount of up and down, especially between Mt. Burnham and Mt. Baden-Powell, the actual amount of climbing is a lot more than it sounds. And when you're starting at high altitude and going up from there, it feels like much more. It's hard to understand how much more difficult things are at higher elevations without experiencing it yourself, and a bit hard to believe even when you're gasping through it in person.

The peak of Mt. Baden-Powell is the highest point on the Silver Moccasin Trail, which you'd be insane to attempt while wearing moccasins of any color. Just in case you had that notion. Definitely go with the hiking boots. A monument to Robert Baden-Powell and Boy Scouts in general is there, dating from just before my Eagle Scout uncle joined the very council that erected it. There is also a box with logbook nearby, which is pretty normal on notable (and some less notable) hiking destinations. We stopped to recover a bit and have our lunch.

While we ate we met a group of mostly college-aged people, who had arrived a few minutes ahead of us, a couple with their entirely lovable black labrador, a pair of trail runners (as hard and wiry as you'd expect, in sungoggles and day-glo spandex), and a trio of nuns. If you'd told me that morning I would meet a Carmelite accountant that day on the top of a mountain, I would have probably nodded and said, "Yep, sounds about right." I like my world strange; it rarely disappoints. As we left, a 70-year-old man arrived, more fit and hale than most 30-year-olds I know. He'd been a scout over half a century ago and had been hiking ever since.

People think of going uphill as the difficult part, and in a certain way, it's true. Downhill is by far the scarier, though. Tired thighs object and shake precariously when instructed to catch a body over and over again in defiance of gravity. We did take a few minutes extra for the side loop down to the spring for refills. The crisp-sweet mineral flavor is quite simply the taste of granite, the bones of California. It's hard to describe, but unmistakable once you've had it. Bottled water can only dream of such a taste.

Needless to say, it wasn't a late night. It wasn't an especially restful one either, but I chalk that up to a combination of sore body and too-thin pad. I need to fix both issues.

The next morning we trekked back to our parking spot, and the moment I dreaded: descending the steep gully we had first encountered. As I told my friend Matt when we reached the bottom, descending that slope of scree was a poor reward for having climbed it to begin with. Loose rocks and dirt meant frequently turning sideways to descend, like a skier sidestepping. The backpacks were no great help, either. But once we got to the relatively even trail near the bottom, all was clear and safe.

An hour or so in a hot tub was a great help last night, as was turning in earlier than usual. But I did the equivalent of several thousand bodyweight squats this weekend, and I hurt. Clearly there are some areas of fitness I need to pay more attention to. Perhaps all of them.

When I am home and not asleep at the same time, I'll put up some photos of the trip. It's really a lovely area, in its semiarid pine forest kind of way.