Assault on Jacinto 2
III The Descent
By mid-afternoon, we crossed the completely snow-covered north face of the mountain, reaching the last water source for the next thirty kilometres. We had to navigate a partially frozen river and then carry 5 liters of water, which made a significant difference in the comfort of our backpacks.
An 18-year-old named Liam zoomed past us. He had been averaging 40 kilometres per day since the beginning of his journey, and I knew I could never keep up with that pace. He engaged in a lengthy conversation with Nick, who was impressed by his determination and endurance. I had to admit that I wouldn't be the fastest on this trail, but I remembered why I was there—I had my own challenges.
The late afternoon was already a test. The last ten kilometers were a true ordeal: crossing a large snowfield. My body was exhausted, my mind weary, and all I wanted was to reach the camp. My feet slipped in the snow, and I fell several times. At one point, we had to traverse a few meters of snow along the edge of a ravine. I thought to myself that this was how people died, slipping when they were exhausted and unable to fight back.
I forced myself to put on my micro-crampons, even though they were nearly ineffective in the soft snow that clumped under our heels. I fell, I slid, and I managed to stop myself. I was getting slower and slower, taking nearly two hours to cover five kilometers.
There were few possible shelters to pitch our tents. Sleeping under the stars didn't make much difference in terms of temperature as long as the air was dry. A tent only provided a few degrees of insulation compared to the outside, shielding from the wind and protecting a bit from moisture. Above all, it created the illusion of personal space, and that night, I was tired and in a bad mood—I needed it.
We all ate huddled together at wooden tables. I felt the cold deep within me. I forced myself to eat, too tired to be hungry. I made myself a hot chocolate. Already, I felt a little better. I set up my tent and placed rocks to secure the stakes. It was so cold, and I didn't want to have to go out and tighten my tent if the wind lifted it. I was so exhausted that I thought sleep would be difficult to find. As usual, it took only five minutes for me to sink into slumber.
Kiki hadn't arrived at the camp that night, and we were all a little worried about her being far behind.
The next day, we descended 2000 meters in one go. I hoped my knees would hold up. I paid attention to my posture, trying to rely more on my muscles than my joints, but wanting to maintain the correct position throughout the day was illusory.
The night had healed me, and I was ready to face the day. The descent was beautiful. The mountain landscape, vast meadows on the hills, and down below, the desert. The wind intensified: this desert tongue was actually a large wind farm. Now I understood why. The further down we went, the stronger the wind became. At a bend in the trail, it snatched my cap.
I caught up with the others. Janick, Kelsey, then Idaho, Nick. I walked a bit with Idaho and Evan, Kim and Roxy, and joined in their absurd conversation.
"Was it more moral to kill a human or the last rhinoceros? If it was to save a species, it was more moral to kill a human." "Yes, but what if the human was Gaspard?" Idaho asked. Intrigued, I responded that if it was to save a species, I authorized Evan to kill me, or I could commit suicide to spare him from having to kill me, but if there was only one male left, the species was doomed anyway due to genetic impoverishment, so that had to be taken into account. And so on.
The others stopped to have lunch. According to my calculations, we would reach the water point by 2 p.m. I preferred to keep my muscles warm, sustain myself with snacks, and continue my descent. Starting last this morning, I was now in the lead. While filming myself, I took a good tumble. It was a shame the others couldn't enjoy it.
Finally, we arrived at the water tap at the bottom of the mountain. Jacinto was over, and we were still alive. Nothing could stand in our way anymore.
Nothing except, perhaps, the wind.
We had planned to camp there, but the wind was out of control, stirring up dust clouds on the desert sand, and the low-lying bushes offered no protection. It would be impossible to pitch our tents there. We checked the weather forecast. There was an alert for a windstorm, with gusts of over a hundred kilometers per hour.
We had no choice but to cover the seven kilometers to a bridge under a highway, the only possible shelter in these conditions. We decided to sleep there. The crossing of the plain that followed was a nightmarish episode. Whirling winds lashed our faces, and we could only open our eyes intermittently. We moved blindly, pushed by the wind along with our backpacks, with dust and sand scratching our faces.
The bridge provided us with some respite. Trail angels had brought coolers filled with drinks and snacks. However, the romance of the vagabond life quickly lost its charm. Even with protection, the deafening noise of the roaring highway overhead and the glass-strewn ground only added to our discomfort.
We considered staying, but the storm that was expected to last the entire next day left us with few options. At least we had access to the internet. I checked; if we went to the nearby town of Banning, we could get accommodation for $25 per person. The others were not hard to convince. Two more nights in a motel, but after these four days, we deserved it.