Burrito in the Sky: the Trans-Catalina Trail

Nick and I sat on a sun-filled patio. Our backpacks leaned against the table, where postcards, stamps, and water bottles lay scattered around our coffee mugs. In the distance, at the foot of a far slope, the Pacific Ocean glittered in the mid-morning sun.

Inside, Elvis Presley’s voice floated through a tile-floored dining room. It was day two of our through-hike of the Trans-Catalina Trail, and we awaited a breakfast burrito and breakfast sandwich, respectively. We had hiked to a restaurant at an airport on the top of an island mountain. Could this be real? I readied a mayonnaise packet and the bottle of Cholula that Nick had insisted on carrying. We would see.

“I’ll be right back,” Nick said, vanishing into the shade of the building.

I stared out at the Pacific. The fog was beginning to lift on the mainland-facing side of the island, and across the water I could see the peaks surrounding Los Angeles. The San Gabriel Mountains, I thought with a feeling like thirst.

“Kelly?” a voice called over the intercom. “Your breakfast is ready.”

Shut the back door! It was real.

There’s a lot of great information out there about hiking the Trans-Catalina Trail, a 37-mile traverse of Catalina Island, which lies about two dozen miles off the coast of greater LA. Before the trip, we’d read quite a few blogs telling us to try the Buffalo Milk cocktail (I’ll be repeating that advice) and to add an extra night at Little Harbor (also a recommendation worth heeding).

But here’s what I didn’t read anywhere: Catalina Island offers an anomalous experience for backpackers. It’s a weird little route, a bizarre mélange of backcountry, beach, and tourist village I can only compare to an unguided trek through the villages of the Peruvian Andes. And, while the TCT may not be the most pristinely wilderness-y of outdoor adventures, it is wild enough—with just enough perks of civilization to be really, really fun.

You can hike the TCT from either end or in shorter sections. We opted for the “slow route,” adding a night at Little Harbor and spreading the mileage out over four and a half leisurely days. We went over the holidays, from December 28 to New Year’s Day. I feared it would be crowded, but in fact the opposite was true; we often hiked for hours without passing another soul.

Day 1: Avalon to Black Jack

Planning to follow the recommended route from east to west, we took a morning ferry from Long Beach to the town of Avalon and arrived under cover of white fog so thick it rendered the island invisible. After floundering through the candy-colored village in search of our permit, we set off up Avalon Canyon Road past a golf course. We soon found the trailhead near a campground on our right. The Trans-Catalina Trail is well maintained and well marked; there’s no danger of losing your way. Pick up an (excellent) trail map from the Catalina Island Conservancy’s offices before you leave town.

The first day’s hike was our longest, 11 miles. It was mostly climbing, with a few teasing downslopes followed immediately by another punishing uphill trudge. All told, the first day’s trail rises from sea level to about 1500 feet. But no matter! Because less than two miles in, the trail sprang up onto a ridge, yielding the first clear view of the western, out-to-sea side of the island. The Pacific lay flat to the horizon under clear skies in one direction—and on the opposite side, the fog had cleared and we could look down on the little town of Avalon, where a departing ferry drew a white streak across the water’s surface.

We had our bush eyes on, hoping to see some of the famous fauna we’d heard about.

“Oh my god. You brought binoculars?”

I liked to tease Nick about his tendency to pack heavy. Once he brought several whole onions, a half-pound salami, and a camping chair on a backpacking trip. Insanity.

“You’re gonna be grateful when I see a buffalo!” he said. “And you’d better be nice if you want a peek.”

The island boasts a robust population of non-native American Bison. There’s a rumor (unconfirmed) that they were brought over in 1924 for a bit part in the silent film version of Zane Grey’s The Vanishing American. I like to think that William Wrigley, Jr. (yes, of the chewing gum) brought them over for some novelty homesteading endeavor gone awry. Wrigley owned the entire island in the 1920’s, when it was a haven for Hollywood movie stars and, in spring, the Chicago Cubs’ training ground. Lest you think ill of the rich, as I sometimes do, the Wrigley family pulled off an incredible feat of forward-thinking land management: they deeded 42,000 acres of Catalina to The Catalina Island Conservancy in 1975, so the island is 88% protected land. Show me that percentage of preserved acreage anywhere else in America! Amazing. Thus the flourishing population of about 150 bison—and the species found only on this land mass, like the miniature fox I was hoping to see.

Happily, fate provided. We entered a shaded valley, trudging downhill through prairie grass and prickly pear cacti.

“Bison!” Nick called out suddenly. “One o’clock!”

Sure enough, two bison stood on the opposite slope. Their backs were half turned to us, and despite our shouting and ballyhooing they seemed completely oblivious to our intrusion on their solitude. Their heads were sunk in the tall grass, eating. We could see only their humped, prehistoric backs and their saggy elephant butts.

“Can I get a look through those ‘nocs?”

“What, these?” Nick said. “These dumb binoculars stupid Nick shouldn’t have brought?”

“Okay. You’re smart. You’re a genius. I’m sorry. Lemme see!”

We hiked on, passing close to the bison as the trail crossed the little canyon. They didn’t seem to care at all.

“So some buffalo were gonna join us for dinner,” Nick said an hour later as we hiked down a series of steps embedded in a steep section of trail. “But they were running late.”

I could feel it coming. I grinned.

“So they sent one of their buddies ahead,” he continued. “To bison time.”

“You make that up just now?”

“Yep.”

“Good one.”

Nick told the joke to some people at the campground that night. They weren’t as amused as I’d been.

“Ha,” one woman said drily. “That’s good.”

Black Jack Campground is nestled on a hillside under cover of tall trees. Most of Catalina is exposed and dry, desert-like, so I could imagine that in summer this would be an oasis. We set up camp just in time for sunset, which was unremarkable. This was the only campsite on our trip without a direct view of the ocean—or, really, an oceanside perch. But it was serene and lovely, and after the sun went down we lay stretching on the benches of our picnic table watching the stars appear. The biggest shooting star I’d ever seen blasted across the sky.

“Whoa!” Nick said. “Did you—

“Yeah I saw it! Holy shit.”

“This is gonna be a good trip, isn’t it?”

“Duh.”

Day One on the TCT, hiking from Avalon to Black Jack.

Some pretty insane day one views. Here you can see the San Gabriel mountains in the distance.

Day 2: Black Jack to Little Harbor (via the airport)

Day two’s hike featured one of the sweetest pit stops in history. We climbed two miles from Black Jack to a place where the mountain was flattened out for a runway: Airport in the Sky. There we found the restaurant I’ve described, ordered our breakfast, and sat happily scribbling postcards.

When the food arrived, it wasn’t just food-on-a-mountain novelty good; it was actually tasty.

“This is one of the best breakfast sandwiches I’ve ever had,” I said. “They put cheese up against both pieces of bread. It’s an envelope of cheese! Genius.”

Nick said his burrito was also top-notch.

Two white-haired older men joined us on the patio. They were tall and ruggedly elegant; one looked like an aging movie star. (We wanted to see an actual celebrity at Airport in the Sky, but no dice. The next day, someone told us Fred Savage had been spotted there earlier that week, and we seethed with jealousy). The white-haired guys said they’d flown over in their plane for the morning. Just to have breakfast.

“Have you kayaked out here?” Mister Fading Star asked. “I used to bring my yacht out. I’d anchor up, then kayak into all the little harbors.”

“That sounds amazing,” I said.

“Let’s do that next time,” Nick agreed. When they’d left, he whispered, “I used to bring my yacht out here.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s my new boyfriend. Too old?”

“Nah, you’re about the same age.”

I threw a punch at his shoulder. I’m eight years older than Nick, so age jokes are the bread and butter of our friendship. Like when I told him I was proud he’d made it through potty training before the trip started.

Breakfast in paradise at Airport in the Sky.

Stuffed with eggs and coffee, we saddled up. Hiking downhill from the airport, we fell into step with two guys hiking the same way: Wil and TJ. We hiked together the rest of the morning. Wil worked in mental health services for the military and lived near San Diego, while TJ was in advertising for Warner Brothers’ music division in Los Angeles. They’d grown up together in a small town now gobbled up by the LA suburbs.

“You’re from Austin?” Wil said. “So you know about Fire Agate?”

“Uh, no.”

 Wil told me about a rare deep red stone found only one place in Texas and nowhere else in the world, a rock so lava-bright it appeared to be burning. He tasked me to go and visit the ranch where it could be found.

“I’m on it!” I said.

As we talked, we descended a good 1600 feet, and the views grew more stunning by the mile. We walked a ridgeline with panoramic vistas of both sides of the island, then ambled down a broad slope where thousands of chunks of quartz littered an old stream bed.

Wil, TJ and Nick hiking along a ridge en route from the airport to Little Harbor.

Our day two was the “short version.” Most people hike, as Wil and TJ would, from Black Jack through the airport down to Little Harbor—and then straight on through to Two Harbors. That’s a solid 14-mile day, though it’s doable if you start early. But what’s the rush?

I’m going to agree with the rest of the blog world here: stay at Little Harbor. You’ll see all the miniature foxes and swim on a practically private beach and maybe even have your own outdoor shower. You’ll never regret it.

Yes, our campsite (#12) was right at the edge of the beach. Yes, it was shaded by palm trees. And yes, it had its own private path onto the sand, where a crescent-shaped bay was lapped by crystalline waters. And—unbelievably yes!—there was an outdoor shower directly adjacent to our site.

“What!” we kept saying. “What even is this place?”

After a lunch picnic with us, Wil and TJ hiked on. We’d exchanged numbers and planned to meet up if our paths crossed again. Wil had left us with two MRE’s, military rations he didn’t need for the rest of his hike. We sampled one that night, and in addition to the technological marvel of how it cooks itself with the mere addition of water, it was pretty good. I will say, however, that I was thereafter constipated for four days—which explained the inclusion of laxative chewing gum in the meal packet. Why oh why had I eschewed the gum?

Nick and I reveled in the paradise that was Little Harbor. We took a brief, frigid swim in the Pacific, then sat reading and lounging until the sun went down. We ate a buffet of noodles and MRE magic.

“What a bummer we can’t have a fire,” Nick said. “And I paid for that wood, too.”

At several campsites along the TCT, you can preorder wood for the fire / barbecue pits. But we’d seen signs all over the island: “Burn Ban. NO FIRES ANYWHERE!” The message was clear. And the temperature was dropping quickly. We were in for a cold night on the beach.

Just as the last of the sun disappeared, a bearded young man pulled up in a pickup truck.

“One bundle of firewood?” he said amiably.

“We’re allowed to burn it?”

“Oh yeah!” he said. “They lifted the burn ban two days ago!”

Would wonders never cease? We had a little fire and attempted to dry our wet hair and clothes over the flames. By the time the wood ran out, the moon had risen, so we took a night hike to the Whale’s Tail, where a peninsula of rock swoops skyward in a kind of fin—which abruptly drops off in a sheer cliff. In the moonlight the surface of the rock was white as bone.

Back at the campsite, little furry forms scurried around the tables. They were the size of cats.

“Fox!” I shouted. “Foxes!”

“They really are miniature,” Nick said. “Hello, little guy.”

“Hi, come back!” I cried. “Don’t go!”

But the foxes wisely fled our flashlights. Good thing we’d zipped our tents, as instructed, from bottom to top; apparently the clever creatures can open a tent and enter at will, if you leave a zipper within reach.

Despite the damp cold, which left our rain fly dripping wet in the morning, we fell asleep almost instantly, and slept deeply to the crash of waves making sea glass against the soft brow of Little Harbor.

The dreamiest beach-side campsite at Little Harbor, #12.

Just relaxing and reading Eat, Pray, Love after a swim in the Pacific, no big deal.

Day 3: Little Harbor to Two Harbors

This day’s hike was my favorite of the trip, view-wise. You’ll find so many panoramic / dual-sided views from the ridgeline trail, you’ll fill up your phone’s storage in a single morning’s walk. At a shade structure between mile 21 and 22, you can look down the mountain into water so clear, a rust-colored reef is easily visible just off the shoreline.

The hike is negligible in length – about 5.5 miles – so if you wanted a super-easy overnight trip, I’d recommend ferrying to Two Harbors, hiking out to Little Harbor for an evening, and hiking right back the next day. Just an idear. You’d get the best of Catalina’s beauty in a mere 11-mile out-and-back (which you could do as a day hike, too). That said, it wouldn’t be a cakewalk; the trail climbs 1200 feet and descends the same 1200 feet, going from sea level to mountaintop back to sea level, for 2400’ in total elevation change. Not shabby.

Little Harbor from the departing trail. The hump of rock at center is the Whale's Tail.

One of many moments of obscene beauty between Little Harbor and Two Harbors.

We cruised into Two Harbors by midday, descending through a cold fog that filled the town, cleared, then filled it again like a hazy memory. We sat on a deck overlooking the water, immersed in postcards, books, and cheeseburgers and tacos from the snack bar.

Then we hiked just past the town to the campground, where we set up our tent on a sloped pad with yet another magnificent ocean view, this time of Isthmus Cove and a giant boulder, aptly named Bird Rock, respectfully shared by seals and cormorants. The town of Two Harbors is on the LA-facing side of the island, and we could see the lights of the city starting to blink on in the distance, with those delicious-looking mountains beyond.

We befriended our neighbor at the next campsite, Carlos, a man in sales in LA who’d spontaneously come out for the New Year. Then we hiked back to the ferry landing to meet David, Nick’s friend from high school, who’d be joining us for the last two nights of the trip.

Nick, David, Carlos and I walked down to the bar (who knows what the name of it is—it’s the only bar in Two Harbors, so you can’t miss it), where we joined up with some people David met on the ferry: Caroline, Hunter, and Kris. Our three newest pals were ultra-athletes, or athlebrities (a word?): an Olympic swimmer, a Tough Mudder champion with his own TV show, and an ultra-marathoner. We all got some drinks, and the runners—who were planning to jog 20 miles up and down mountains the next day—got big meaty dinners.

“Oh, you guys got that drink?” Carlos said, joining us on the patio. “The buffalo sperm?”

“Buffalo milk, Carlos!” Nick said, laughing.

Everyone will tell you to get the Buffalo Milk cocktail in Two Harbors. I agree: do it. It’s a White Russian-style frozen drink with a hint of…banana liqueur? Who knows. It’s tasty and special and you’ll annoy the hell out of the grumpy bartender, which is fine. Then you can spend the rest of the night ordering simple drinks and talking him up about the workflow of the holidays, trying to regain his good graces. If you went to the Kelly Ramsey School of Charm, it’ll work. Eventually, he'll crack a smile.

Our newest friends were what my hipster friends back home, who always diss the City of Angels, would call “LA people.” They were so fit you could grate carrots on their abs. They each had at least ten thousand Instagram followers. And you know what? They were warm and kind – and hilarious. Hunter told us the story of the time he spontaneously joined some strangers to hike the Lost Coast Trail in Northern California. He had had, he said, “the best shit of my life” on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. A conversation about best wilderness number two’s inevitably followed.

All the LA people were staying in Two Harbors the following night, for New Year’s Eve.

“It’s going to be a huge party,” Carlos said. “Apparently everyone who’s on the island, which is about 200 people, comes to this one party. We’re gonna dress up!”

“Costumes?” Nick said. I saw a telltale twinkle in his eye.

“No,” I said. “We are not night-hiking seven miles back here for a party!”

“Just think about it,” he said. "Costumes!"

After just a couple drinks, we bade our new friends a fond farewell. Everyone’s fitness plans were too ambitious for a night of true revelry. We hiked back to the campground and fell asleep to the sound of seals barking on Bird Rock. They, on the other hand, knew how to party all night.

Two goofballs, and our camp at Two Harbors.

Day 4: Two Harbors to Parson’s Landing

Day four of our hike fell, by design, on New Year’s Eve. This was one of the toughest hiking days, with almost 1800 feet of climb and the same 1800 feet of descent (3600’ total). Carlos joined us for the first few miles. As we started off, he helped David put a water bottle in his side pocket. David’s bag let out a loud squeak.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing,” David said.

The climbing part of the 7-mile hike featured more gorgeous views from narrow ridgelines. After saying goodbye to Carlos, however, we reached a juncture past mile 28, where we began to descend. Here the TCT follows the Fenceline Road, an absolutely whack-ass route I cannot imagine any vehicle ever traversing. The dirt track literally plummets straight down (or, if you were coming the other way, straight up) the mountain. It is madness.

Thankfully we had trekking poles, but it was still a rough two mile slip-and-slide in the dirt. This is some of the worst trail design I’ve ever seen, and I have to think there’s some reason for it—like it was once a testing ground for amphibious assault vehicles? Or a climbing route for giant spiders? Whatever the reason, this trail is bonkers. But it’s the most direct route to Parson’s, unless you want to take a very long way around on the Silver Peak trail past Starlight Beach, so I’d recommend strapping on your sense of humor and laughing your way down. That’s what we did.

Finally we reached the end of it, Parson’s Landing, a wide flat beach with a smattering of campsites on the sand. Someone (previous campers? helpful rangers?) had made little half-wall structures out of beach stones, enclosures that provided protection from the wind. Finding our site, we set up our tents and spread our wet rain flies on the rocks.

Nick went for a little hike in the direction of Starlight. David crawled into his tent for an afternoon nap. My inner pinky toes had erupted in the most painful blisters I can remember having (for which I blamed my first foray into “real” hiking boots, after years of backpacking in trail runners). I peeled off the moleskin and bandaids by the grace of which I’d limped through the day and waded into the surf, letting it sting my raw skin. Then I grabbed a camp chair, propped up my feet, and sat reading and drinking tea. A huge flock of gulls spangled the shallows and covered half the beach. Now and then one would lift off, triggering a clique of his fellows to follow. I watched the white birds rise en masse and circle the beach. I jotted down some intentions for the new year in my journal and half-dozed in the yellow light.

After Nick returned, we started on dinner. David was digging around in his pack.

“Hey guys,” he said, pulling out a plastic bag. “Ever been to Party City?”

With a triumphant flourish, he pulled out New Year’s party hats and an array of noisemakers, including one that emitted a sharp squeak, like a dog toy. Nick and I burst out laughing.

“That was the sound in your bag?!”

“Oh my god, David, you’re so cool!”

“This is awesome!”

We immediately applied the party hats to our heads and blew on the noisemakers ad nauseum. Dusk arrived, and with it the full moon. We had a fire on the beach, passed around a flask of whiskey, and visited some guys at a nearby campsite. When I came back from a trip to the toilets, Nick and David were standing on one bench of the picnic table, doing a little jig as they chanted,

“Ireland! Scotland! Ireland, Scotland!”

“England!” Nick added.

“What are you guys doing?” I laughed, suddenly struck with an aching fondness for these two goofy young men. How lucky, I thought, to have these guys for hiking companions.

“We were just talking about Michael Flatley,” Nick said.

“Oh,” I said. “Of course.”

Returning to the fire, I passed around slips of paper and pens.

“Okay,” I said. “On one piece of paper, write down what you’d like to leave behind in 2017. What do you need to let go of? Then on the other sheet, write down what you’re welcoming in for 2018. What do you want? What work will you do to make it happen? Write it all out.”

We sat under the moon, writing with the rapt silence of children making drawings no one has asked them for. Then we read our lists aloud.

“I want to bring in more social activity and more fun,” David said.

“I want to leave sadness behind,” said Nick. “I want the grief of this breakup to end.”

“I want adventures,” I said. “And to let myself love and be loved.”

We crumpled our lists, tossed them into the flames, and watched them curl, blacken, and vanish into the sky.

By nine o’clock we were in our tents. As I zipped up my sleeping bag, there was a rumble.

“Do you hear that?” Nick said.

“Yeah. Is that thunder?”

“I don’t think so.”

He unzipped the tent and we crouched in the doorway. There, off the coast of the distant mainland—perhaps in Long Beach—fireworks that were teensy-weensy from that distance erupted into the sky. Nick took out his binocs and we traded them off, watching bursts of white and pink boom out over the dark water.

“Ooh,” we whispered. “Ahh.”

“Happy New Year, buddy,” I said.

“Happy New Year, Ramsey.”

And we fell asleep, long before midnight, to the sound of waves.

Camped at Site #7 at Parson's Landing amid runic stone walls.

Day 5: Parson’s Landing to Two Harbors

New Year’s Day 2018 dawned clear and bright. Nick is an insomniac, a quality that can be annoying in a tentmate, but it has its perks; he had risen early and made coffee and a fire.

We stood around the fire, bundled in our jackets and hats, watching the sun begin to glimmer on the water’s surface.

“What’s that?” Nick said.

“Dolphins!” David cried.

“No way! Really?”

“Yes! A whole pod!”

We passed the binoculars around and watched them: a group of dolphins swimming and leaping out of the waves. Their gray backs were slick and seamless. Nothing could look happier or more carefree.

“This has to be the best omen for the year,” I said.

“Duh,” Nick said.

The boys took a walk around the corner of a bluff to see a recent shipwreck another hiker had mentioned. Because my toes were still burning with blister-maggedon, I stayed back to soak them in the salt water once more.

“David’s got a joke,” Nick said as they returned.

“Let’s hear it.”

“I accidentally drove my car into the ocean,” David said with a serious expression. “Now I’m a scuba driver.”

There were two scuba divers on a rubber boat, they reported, who’d scavenged the steering wheel and ship’s compass from the wreck. This struck me as a morbid thing to do. Nick said there were a bunch of Coors’ light cans floating in the water. I wondered what had happened, imagining drunk fishermen foundering on the rocks.

We ate breakfast, packed up, and set off. Our ferry was due to leave from Two Harbors at midafternoon, and we didn’t want to get into a speed-hiking snafu. We had seven mostly flat miles to cover; on this last leg the Trans-Catalina Trail joins up with (is) the West End Road, which follows the coastline past a series of Boy Scout and other summer camps.

We hiked past Emerald Bay, where the shallow water was a transparent shade of aqua. Soon after, David spotted two seals chillaxing on a large rock with what Nick calls an MFGBH (a motherfucking great blue heron, to those of you who, like me, didn’t know). Nearing the end of our route, a grand cliff jutted out between two small coves. Hundreds of cormorants were departing from the craggy foot of this promontory, and their wings made syncopated rhythms and white dotted lines on the surface of the water.

Somewhere near Emerald Bay on the West End Road.

We strolled into Two Harbors a little after noon and ordered huge well-earned meals from the snack bar: pancakes for David, fish and chips for me, and fish tacos for Nicky. After some souvenir shopping in the little store, we boarded the ferry at dusk. Our boat stopped through Avalon for more passengers before heading back to the mainland, and I loved the journey from one island town to the next. The island’s mountains were blue and smoky in twilight. And they were wilderness: not a single light turned on as the sky faded to indigo.

We crossed the water under clear dark skies and came into San Pedro in the dark. The port was stacked with infinite multicolored shipping containers. We passed a battleship and pronounced it “pretty cool.” The nearly-full moon shone on the black water. And that was it: the ferry tied up at the dock, we collected our backpacks from below, and we were back in LA.

“What an amazing trip,” Nick said.

“Seriously.”

“That’ll be hard to top next New Year’s.”

“Let’s do it again!”

We just might.

All told, the Trans-Catalina trail was an absolute delight, one of the most unique and pleasurable backpacking trips I’ve done. It offers astounding views, wilderness moments, wildlife sightings, private beach camping, and small-town island charm…all within an hour of a major city. Do it. Like right now. Bison time off, and get out there.

Deets: Trans-Catalina Trail

Location: Santa Catalina Island, about 25 miles off the coast of Los Angeles

How to get there: Take the Catalina Island Express ferry from Long Beach or San Pedro, depending on your hiking route.

Costs: Pricey, for backpacking. The ferry is $70 RT per person, plus parking at the terminal if you need it. Camping is $25/night per person (yes really!), plus a $10 reservation fee per night. Then it’s extra for firewood any night and water (needed) at Parson’s Landing. And you’ll want to budget some cash to get a Buffalo Milk cocktail and fish and chips in Two Harbors. Then there’s the cost of the food you pack in for the hike. Total expenses for a 4-nighter: $300-400. It was well worth it, in my opinion! But budget accordingly.

Permits: Obtain in advance from the Catalina Island Conservancy. They'll say you need to pick up a copy of said permit in Avalon, but this isn't really possible. Go to the Conservancy's offices and get the number of a ranger; you can call and announce yourself as arriving. It's a weird system, but hey: island life.

Hiking route: You have so many options here. Our route was Avalon to Two Harbors, as highlighted in pink on the map below. But you could hike the TCT in the opposite direction, or choose to do a one or two-nighter. Flexibility is one of this trail’s assets.

When to Go: Anytime, I'd say! Winter (a remarkably mild one, when we went) was lovely, though with limited swimming. Summer would be hot and shadeless, but with all the swims! I imagine spring/fall might be ideal. Southern California allows for year-round hiking. Such a bonus!

Bring: All your usual backpacking gear, perhaps the desert edition thereof. Maybe some binoculars, if you’re hoping to eye a far-off bison. And, of course, some noisemakers and festive hats from Party City.

The Conservancy's awesome trail map, also available as a pdf. Our route is marked and numbered by camping nights.