The day started off with a few miles of flat trail walking, but quickly turned into an uphill battle once again. There was a large stretch of trail that had no water, and the upcoming water source was basically a trough on the side of a hill. The water had a greasy film on top, and until this point my standards had only reached a certain low. This trough was soon to drop them to a new low. I kid-you-not this water had tiny little parasites swimming around in the water, small worm looking bugs all over the place. A normal person wouldn’t take a second look, but hey . . PCT hikers aren’t normal people. I filtered the water, then put a few drops of chlorine-oxide into the water and drank plentiful amounts. Guess what, I SURVIVED.
Eight miles and a few thousand feet above the trough we found ourselves at a self-proclaimed hiker heaven, a place called “Mike’s Place”. Mike’s place at first glance seemed amazing, a few scattered about hikers setting up their tents and random people sitting around a junk yard type home in the hills drinking Budweiser and conversating in a circle in the driveway. There was something off about Mike’s place though, and it became more and more apparent as the night went on. First of all, Mike wasn’t there . . and previous hikers had all said the same thing: “Where the hell is Mike?” The hosts of the house were all roughly 30-35 years of age, spoke of hard drugs and were clearly destroyed from a hard days toke. Really though they were all nice enough people and at the end of the day — the food was good ‘enough’, the beer was cold ‘enough’, and the plot of dirt I propped my tent onto was flat . . ‘enough’.