"So, tell me about Florida, Bob."

"Not from Florida."

"Well, where are you from, Bob?"

"Name's not Bob, either. Don't know why they call me that." 

"Don't play the banjo, either" says Bob, as he holds up his banjo.

I met Florida Bob on Tuesday, June 10th, near Kelso Valley Road. Bob was part of my biting-at-the-bit before I left for my hike in May. I was fervently reading the journals and emails of the early pack of hikers, watching their weather conditions and hiking vicariously. 

Bob is one of a few guys who, after two early attempts at the San Jacintos, returned to the Mexican border to start over. "I didn't come out here to stay in some hotel," says Bob. Many early hikers were holed-up from Anza to Idyllwild waiting for April's late snow storms to pass. Not Bob. For this I admire him greatly. 

Anyway, I hiked with Bob off & on for a couple of days, and I really enjoyed his good company, wonderful conversation, and humble banjo music. 

There's an old cabin in the Scodie mountains, built in 1938 by Murdo McIver. It's 3 miles off the PCT and has a spring 30 feet from the front door. I spent that Tuesday evening sitting on the porch smoking my pipe while Florida Bob played his banjo. Just a couple of hillbillies. His banjo strumming was so low-key, I really felt like I was down on the bayou. Only thing missing were the fireflies.

--Molasses