Scissors Crossing to MEXICO!

PCT MILES COMPLETE: 2129.6
PCT mile 76 to PCT mile 0
Section mileage: 76
Days: 11/3 - 11/5

We fall asleep to the sound of coyotes yipping in the hills. In the morning, Craig told me that last night I'd been snoring so loud that he'd had to wake me up. "Really?" I asked skeptically.

Climb out of Scissor's Crossing

Craig's artwork

"Yeah," he insisted, "I said, 'wake up! You're snoring!' and you said, 'no I wasn't!' and rolled over and went back to sleep."

Apparently. We climbed slowly up from Scissors Crossing into the mountains and away from the highway. We left Hop behind, as he was meeting up with a friend that evening. As we climbed, I started noticing details I've missed, like the bare branches of burnt manzanita shrubs with a skirt of new growth below. These mountains I take for granted.

I walked alone behind Craig in silence, thinking about the end. What I am going to do next. Pick up my dog, get a job, figure out what to do with myself. I have boxes of things squirreled away, things I am excited to see and things I don't need. "I'll eat a lot of fresh vegetables," I think. And bake, now that I can eat gluten again. And eat no more Knorr pasta sides ever again, at least until the next trip.

We stop at a flattish spot along the trail for the night. The next day, the trail continues to parallel a road over the hill and we near civilization. We pass a cliff patched with plaques memorizing loved ones. At first, I think these are all loved ones that died at this spot, para sailing or something. But there are too many of them! They must be loved ones released into the afterlife at this grand vista in the desert. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, sand to sand.

I eat more graham crackers with nutella, sitting on a picnic table in a roadside rest area. Why didn't I discover this snack sooner? At the next road crossing, we decide to take the road into the town of Mount Laguna, where there is supposedly a store. It's quiet, but there is a store, so we buy big beers and drink them on a bench in the parking lot while older tourists subtly avoid us. We are discussing spending the night when Hop comes walking towards us.

The three of us buy beer and microwaveable snacks and rent a little cabin for the night. Hotpockets, and things we wouldn't dream of ever eating again. There's a wood fireplace and the two of them stay up late drinking and talking. I go to bed early. The end is coming soon and I need time to let it sink in.

From Mount Laguna we have 42 miles to the Mexican border, and we'd like to make it there in two days. Hop's friend from San Diego is coming to pick him up and we'd love a ride too. That means we need to start hiking real miles, but even still we do not leave the cabin until almost 10. The trail is easy, and we listen to our electronic devices and walk until it's dark, through the backyards of people, sounding their dog alarms. 

Sure death awaits you

We camp at Lake Morena campground, where most thruhikers spend their first night on the trail. It's abandoned; even Hop is nowhere to be found. The next morning we wake up early to get a start towards the border. All day we leap frog with Hop in the heat of the day. In the town of Campo, the three of us reconvene at the little store. I buy the largest soda I have ever seen (big enough to be banned in NYC) and drain it right away, the cold rushing to my head. We buy beers and awful, awful Bud Light margaritas which we crack open immediately to drink while we walk the remaining mile and a half to the border. Closer and closer we get to the fence and monument. 

Cheers!

Hop and Cree

And suddenly we are there, cresting the slope and whooping, peering past to the corrugated metal fence beyond which lies Mexico. It's quiet and on a dirt road. A border guard pulls up, asks us what we're doing. I think, "it's pretty obvious; we just walked from Canada (kind of)!" We have an hour until Hop's friend shows up, so we drink our beers and take photos in the hot midday sun. It feels surreal. "We have 530 miles or so left in Northern California," a voice whispers in my head, but that's another trip that I get to take another time. I quiet the voice, drink my beer, and then tipsily ride in the back of a pickup truck to San Diego.

Me and Cree