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deranged.
    The message for the desert hiker is loud and clear— caveat emptor.

Chapter 7
    And They’re Off
     
    Bliss was in that dawn to be alive.
    William Wordsworth
     
    I t was a brilliant pageantry of clean, well-fed, well-hydrated hikers in their desert best that bounded out of Lake Morena County
    State Park in southern California with such high hopes. The PCT had issued a record number of hiking permits (over 500) to thru-hiking hopefuls this year. And, of course, many had already picked up colorful trail names ranging from Heartless Bastard, to Helen of Troy (well, nice try anyway), to Serial Killer.
    To describe us as heavily laden would be an understatement. I was carrying about 42 pounds which was a dozen more than I had begun with on the Appalachian Trail. Specifically, we had been advised to carry winter clothes all the way through the desert, which had our backpacks bulging. Attached or stashed in each backpack was a minimum of four liters of water.
    I had always wondered why Arabs in the Middle East wear such long robes. Wouldn’t that Saudi royal family be more comfortable in Izod golf shirts? But once in the desert, I quickly began to understand. Those robes are light and loose, and provide maximum protection from the sun. Most hikers, male and female, were wearing long-sleeved, beige Sahara desert shirts. Yogi, whose PCT Handbook is the one indispensable guide to hiking the PCT, had strongly advised, “Get yourself the widest, dorkiest hat you can find.” Everybody seemed to have taken that advice to heart. On our heads were widebrimmed white fedoras with chin straps to cover our faces and nose.
    When we passed through the Boulder Oaks Campground at mile six, a crowd was gathered around the faucet, drinking like camels.
    “Let me have some,” a healthy-looking, squarely-built girl in her mid-twenties immediately exclaimed upon seeing me. She wasn’t talking about my water, though, but my height.
    “Just take steps like this,” I stretched out as far as I could. “You’ll be in Canada before you know it.” This generated the intended laughter, to be sure. All weekend at the Kickoff, I had been hearing, “God I wish I had your height.” But I was uncomfortable with the high expectations it created.
    “I’m Galit,” this girl introduced herself.
    “Where are you from?” I asked, noticing a foreign accent.
    “Israel.” Those Israelis sure didn’t win all those wars by being shrinking violets.
    I lay down in the shade next to some other guy with our backpacks as headrests.
    “Hey guys, watch out for those bees,” Galit said. I jumped up, suddenly alarmed at the swarm of bees all over my back. Galit immediately jumped in and started fanning wildly at the bees to get them off our backs.
    This girl reminded me a little of myself. She was probably a bit insecure about what lay ahead and was looking for hiking partners. Something told me she would find them. Indeed, she soon had herself embedded with a big group that got dubbed the International Brigade.

     
    Perhaps my hiking contingent should have been called the Sausage Brigade. There were four males, aged 39, 48, 48, and 66. The latter, Dave—to my surprise—had called my name out at the Kickoff.
    “I bought your book at the book signing at Borders in Sarasota,” he had said.
    “Oh yeah,” I remembered.
    “It was my inspiration to come out here and give it a whirl,” he then claimed. That was surely an exaggeration. But it did make me feel obligated to hang together with him, for at least awhile. His heart and soul were in this hike, and he had obviously trained meticulously.
    Dave had been ripping to go that morning. As the rest of us scurried around to get packed up, he toodled around with his backpack
    firmly strapped on. That was a no-no. It expends unnecessary energy. His biggest mistake, though, was the classic rookie error. His backpack looked like he had stuffed the kitchen sink in there somewhere. It weighed about 50