From Warner Springs to Cabazon: Let the road decide

Leaving Warner Springs

There’s a moment when you leave a place like Warner Springs when you feel the change. You’ve been inside, warmed, fed, surrounded by people, and then, just like that, you’re outside again. Pack up and walk. We left Ian’s house that morning with frost still on the ground, one of those reminders that the desert is not always what you expect. Cold air, calm morning, everything still for a second before the day begins to move again. And then you’re back on the trail and the beat picks up right where it left off.

Find the rhythm again

The miles came quickly that day. We walked past Mike’s house looking for water; There was a mix of hikers gathered there, some looking strong, others already worn down in a way that’s hard to hide so early. You start to notice who is adapting and who is struggling. We pressed on and camped at a creek around mile 131, where we met up with Paige, one of those natural trail connections that happens effortlessly. Thirteen kilometers at noon, the legs feel good and the body responds as you expect. The only real battle that day came from the horseflies, relentless and committed in a way that seemed personal.

Back to the trail. There is nothing left but to continue walking.

Water, heat and small profits

The next day settled into that familiar rhythm of uncertainty and small rewards of the PCT. There was water in the concrete cistern, but not exactly clean…floats floating around, the kind of fountain you don’t think too much about, you just filter and move on.

Not long after, the magic trail appeared out of thin air. Sparkling water and a turkey sandwich on the side of the trail. Simple things, but here they land differently. We arrived at the Little Bear Hostel that afternoon, cooked some hot dogs, drank a cold beer, and for a moment everything calmed down. On the way out, a guy driving was delivering beers from his car as if it were the most normal thing in the world. At that point we had a plan: push on to Devil’s Slide and resupply at Idyllwild. But like most plans here, it wasn’t long before it started to change. We camped around mile 148 with Jeremy and Mic, a solid 17.5 mile day behind us.

When plans change

The change actually happened the next morning. We only walked a few miles before we were taken to the Paradise Valley Café with Dave. Chicken fried steak, real food, the kind that calms you down a little. There we met Dan and Maverick, who offered Emilie and me a ride into the city, and suddenly everything started spinning. The conversation everywhere was the same: the weather was moving toward San Jacinto. Cold, rain and snow. It was enough to make you stop and think. Instead of moving forward, we posted on the trail angel Facebook page and heard back from Chris, a new trail angel who had only been doing this for about a week. That message changed completely in the following days.

Waiting in Idyllwild

Chris opened his home to us without hesitation. Fire going, chili cooking, stories moving around the room as hikers filtered in throughout the night.

Strangers a few days ago. Not so much anymore.

Ben, Fabian, Matt, One Eleven. People we had seen before, people we were just getting to know; Suddenly everyone is part of the same space. The storm came exactly as we expected, cold and steady, and instead of forcing its way through, we waited. It was the right decision. We stayed, shared meals, kept the fire burning and let the weather pass on its own. At one point, Chris shared something personal with us, asking if we could take some of her husband Dave’s ashes and scatter them along the trail. That kind of confidence is hard to put into words and stays with you in a way that doesn’t fade.

We finally made it to Idyllwild and ended up at the Pine Tree Hotel, another unexpected amenity with free stays for hikers. Feeling grateful for a complete zero, I spent most of the time at Chris’s house, sitting by the fire, preparing simple food, in no hurry to leave. That night we stayed in the cabin, somewhat free. Gas stoves working, heaters working, good company everywhere.

Morale improved significantly.

in the mountains

When we finally got going again, it wasn’t exactly the same. The kilometers were there, but the body needed a minute to recover them. The backpacks felt heavier and the feet a little less cooperative at first. That’s the downside of taking time off… you need it, but you feel it when you start over. The weather had not improved at all either. Cold, wind, a low still advancing. We went off trail to Eagle Spring, reconnected with Mufasa, and passed through sections where snow was melting from the trees and chunks of ice were falling around us at random. Now it was a different type of walk, more awareness, more attention to what was happening above and around us. That night we found a sheltered spot on a hill and camped there. There we met up again with Oats, who ended up staying with us from that point on.

You could feel what was coming.

San Jacinto: winning it

The next day seemed like a turning point. We start with one of the first real sunrises of the trip, the kind that really makes you stop and contemplate it. From there we advance towards San Jacinto. Sections of trail covered in snow, ice falling from trees, and mixed reports coming from hikers around Devil’s Slide.

Somewhere up there, it all starts to seem worth it.

Some said it was too sketchy, others said it was fine. It’s always like this. You get the information, but at some point you make your own decision. We decided to keep moving. A few hundred meters away, the expo melted the snow and the trail opened. When we reached the top, it seemed like a completely different day. Blue sky, no wind, 62 degrees. Perfect conditions, the kind that feel earned after everything before. We met Lucas up there, saw Prophet and watched him for a while before heading down.

From storm warnings to blue skies in a few hours.

The back brought us back to reality. Once we reconnected with the PCT and climbed toward Fuller Ridge, it turned into miles of snow and ice. Slipping, sliding, careful foot placement with each step. It wasn’t dangerous, but it required attention. Slow and steady progress. No falls, which felt like its own kind of victory. When we arrived at camp that night and met up with Pics, they all looked the same: tired, but satisfied.

Falling in Cabazon

By comparison, the descent to Cabazon the next day was almost easy. Nineteen miles, most of it downhill, losing about five thousand feet. Somewhere along the way we passed the 200 mile marker and added our little mark to it, nothing big, just enough to say we were there. The rest of the descent was smooth, with your legs moving without much resistance, the kind of day when you realize how much your body has already adapted.

In the end, Mercy picked us up and gave us a rundown on where to stay and where to avoid, the kind of local knowledge you can trust right away. First stop was In-N-Out. Double-double animal style, animal fries! The kind of food that arrives exactly how you need it.

Two hundred miles in. This seemed right.

We ended up at Morongo Casino, splitting a room into three parts, floating in the lazy river, sitting in the hot tub talking to strangers about weddings and life, the kind of surreal contrast you only get when you step off the path and into the real world for a minute. There was even a guy with “Stink Daddy” tattooed on his chest, which somehow felt perfect for the day.

From trail dirt to this in a matter of hours.

The next step is the advance towards Big Bear.

And if there’s one thing this stretch made clear, it’s that plans don’t really mean much here. You adapt, listen and let the path decide the rest.