At Mission Creek – The Hike

Leaving the desert floor

Getting back on the trail after Cabazon felt strange in the best of ways. The casino lights, lazy river, and animal-style fries already felt very far away when we returned to Whitewater with Jay, a medic who kindly transported hikers back to the trailhead. Before long, we were leaving the valley again, staring at the endless rows of wind turbines spinning above us.

The exit from Whitewater was long, exposed and hotter than I wanted. There was some wind, although not as much as I expected, but even a little breeze seemed like a gift. At some point during the climb we saw a decent-sized rattlesnake lying next to the trail, another reminder that the desert was still very much alive around us.

We finally reached our first real river crossing at Whitewater Preserve. The shoes came off immediately. The shirts were washed. Feet soaked in the cold river while the rest of us sat spread out along the shore, letting the cold water take the heat from our legs. Pics, Andre, Dean, Oats, Emilie, Mufasa and I stayed there for almost an hour and honestly, none of us wanted to leave.

From there we continued towards Mission Creek.

I already had a weakness for terrain like this. Much of my trip home to the San Rafael Wilderness follows the Sisquoc River, where trails constantly disappear, reappear, and change with the flow of water and storms. Mission Creek is familiar in that sense, but also completely different from anywhere else on the PCT thus far.

We found a beautiful campsite a few miles from the canyon. Flat tent sites hidden by the creek with a cactus garden out front and the sound of flowing water carrying us into the night. Sleep was easy there.

One of those campsites that you wish you could reserve for yourself.

At Mission Creek

We started early the next morning knowing that Mission Creek would take time. The official trail has been washed out for years, forcing hikers to follow the creek for long stretches. It quickly became one of the most unique sections of trail I have ever experienced.

Mission Creek on the PCT had already acquired an almost mythical reputation in my mind before we reached it.

Mission Creek felt less like a hike and more like an exploration.

There was something magical about it.

Nothing else on the PCT had felt like this.

The deeper we went into the canyon, the more mysterious it felt. The cool morning air wafted beneath the canyon walls as crows echoed overhead as if calling us upriver. The stream meandered through polished stone, waterfalls cascaded down rock walls, and every turn seemed to reveal another hidden pocket of water or another climb waiting up ahead.

Traveling through Mission Creek felt less like following a trail and more like solving a puzzle.

Although footprints occasionally appeared ahead of us, each route still felt like a choice. You explore the terrain, read the rocks, look for weaknesses in the landscape and decide your own line to follow. Something primal emerges when you navigate terrain like that. It’s rewarding and humbling at the same time.

As the morning progressed, the canyon slowly began to warm up. The shadows disappeared section by section as the sun rose over the ridges. Somewhere along the way, we made the decision, half intentional and half accidental, to stay in the creek longer than FarOut recommended. Instead of picking up the official route earlier, we followed the water deeper into the canyon.

At first it was manageable. The steep climbs around the waterfalls turned into a light climb. Then the fight became rocky.

Each turn into the canyon felt a little wilder.

Soon we were climbing huge rocks with a real exposure below us. We came across abandoned hiking poles and a lone water bottle wedged between the rocks, which somehow seemed less reassuring than I think any of us wanted.

The further we went, the quieter the group became.

Finally we came to a waterfall of approximately ten meters that stopped us completely. Water thundered down the rock face as we looked around for options. There was a possible line going up the left side, but the consequences of a fall were so high that no one felt comfortable trying it.

That was probably the first moment along the way where real tension took over the group.

Not exactly panic. More like the sudden realization that we had gotten ourselves into a situation that needed a solution.

I could feel the stress building, so I scrambled up the nearby hillside in search of another option and eventually found a steep, dry slope climbing above the falls. It wasn’t pretty, but it was workable. One by one we climbed up and out until finally I saw another hiker above us near the trail.

He casually looked over and asked, «Are you guys okay?»

We all laugh.

That anonymous hiker felt like a beacon of light in that moment.

Once we finally rejoined the trail properly, we collapsed into a long rest by the creek. Nobody said much for a while. We were exhausted, relieved, and silently trying to decompress from the stress of the morning. Looking back, we were never really in danger, but when things stop going as planned in terrain like that, your mind starts moving fast.

Each turn into the canyon felt a little wilder.

Still, Mission Creek ended up becoming one of my favorite sections of trail so far. Wild, unpredictable, beautiful and unlike anything else on the PCT.

Cowboy Camp at Coon Creek

After leaving Mission Creek, we finally headed towards Coon Creek Cabin at about 8,000 feet. The air cooled significantly as night fell, and for the first time on the PCT, I decided to cowboy camp instead of pitching my tent.

I honestly don’t know why it took me so long.

There was something strangely liberating about simply laying my mat and sleeping bag out in the open. Without walls. No zippers. There is no barrier between you and the night air. It felt silly and exciting at the same time, like I had stumbled upon something I should have been doing all along.

Why did it take me so long to do this?

That night ended up being one of my favorite campsites of the trip.

We camped near the edge of the valley overlooking the creek as the last light faded between the mountains. A warm breeze swept through camp under a completely clear sky, and for the first time in a long time, I remember being there feeling completely present. Little did I know then that cowboy camping would quickly become my preferred way to sleep on the trail.

Big Bear and climate change

The next day we arrived in Big Bear, which already looked like a real trail town. Coffee, breakfast sandwiches, laundry, resupply at Vons, and hikers scattered all over the city trying to resettle before heading back.

Resupply was insanely expensive, which seems to be a universal experience for hikers at this point, but after days on the trail I found myself getting really excited about eating a huge salad for dinner. Trail hunger changes a person.

Temporary return to civilization.

After our zero in the city, we slowly made our way back toward the trail. Another cold night settled over Caribou Creek at about 7,750 feet. It snowed overnight, the temperatures dropped to about thirty degrees, and for the first time in a long time, I crawled back into my tent instead of sleeping under the stars.

The next morning was cold, wet, and honestly a little miserable.

The rain started early as the hikers around us continued talking about how hot the desert had been. Meanwhile, we were freezing our asses off. When the sun finally came out in the early afternoon, the change in mood was immediate. Heat spread across the canyon walls and everyone collectively came back to life.

No wonder people prayed to the sun.

Meanwhile, we were frozen.

That night we camped under a bridge near Deep Creek, listening to the river wash away everything as we slept.

Mile 300

We started hiking around 6am the next morning with a clear goal: Deep Creek Hot Springs.

When we arrived at the springs mid-morning, no one needed convincing to stay a while.

The springs themselves were amazing. Steam rose in the cool morning air as hikers and locals leisurely bathed among the pools. We started out in the mid-temperature pool around 100 degrees before I quickly realized we belonged in the hottest pool, which was supposedly between 108 and 112 degrees.

Honestly, it felt amazing.

It’s worth every cold mile to get there.

I finally got out and swam upstream for a long time in the cold water of the creek above the springs before returning to soak again. We ended up staying there for almost three hours before finally forcing ourselves to leave. And despite what Deep Creek Hot Springs is apparently known for, there weren’t actually any naked people there that day, which, honestly, I wouldn’t have minded.

Just before reaching the hot springs we cross kilometer 300.

Three hundred miles later, and somehow the road was only getting better.

And somehow, that milestone felt less important than the understanding that was slowly brewing around it.

The road was starting to look normal now.

It’s not easy. He’s not comfortable all the time. But familiar.

The routines, the tiredness, the strange little moments, the cold mornings, the river crossings, the dirt, the uncertainty. This was all beginning to seem less like an adventure I had entered into and more like everyday life.

That night we cowboys camped again near Chicadee Creek. Everyone else woke up with their gear damp from humidity overnight, while I somehow stayed perfectly dry under a tree. Small victories.

Somewhere along the way, sleeping under the stars stopped feeling unusual and started to feel like home.

That night I fell asleep listening to the wind move through the branches above me, already thinking about the kilometers that awaited me.