But the bull let us creep by, with the only consequence being shot nerves to go along with our knees. We limped into Blackjack Campground two hours before sunset, finding it empty but for a family of deer and another, less aggressive bison that soon wandered off. Between two of the island’s tallest peaks (both around 2,000 feet), we boiled water for noodles, chewed on turkey jerky and climbed into the tent as darkness, fog and utter exhaustion consumed us.

The next morning when I tested my knee, the undiminished stabs of pain made it clear that we weren’t going to be finishing the Trans-Catalina Trail. But here we were delighted to discover that we weren’t nearly as out there as we felt; my cellphone got three bars of service. A few phone calls later, we had a new plan: hike the three miles to the airport in the middle of the island and catch a midday shuttle to Two Harbors. The next day we’d walk the easier coastal road to Parsons Landing, the last of our campsites. The miles along the airport road were agonizing for me, but our reward was a fully stocked cafe. I had a vengeful bison burger, enjoying each mouthful a little more than I might have in other circumstances.

Two Harbors is an odd mix of outpost and resort town set at a point where the island narrows to about half a mile, leaving a harbor on either side. It has a campsite, cabins, a hotel, a general store and a cafe/restaurant/bar. We heard chatter around town that the storm was still on its way and looking nasty, but we held out hope that the next morning we could walk the seven miles to Parsons. We spent the afternoon reading at our campsite overlooking one of the harbors, the blue sky slowly hazing over as the light fell. In the evening, we joined a bonfire made by members of the Orange County Hiking Club and happily drank their wine and ate their cheese.

The next morning a ranger drove by and politely suggested we book one of the remaining cabins in town. The storm was coming, and how; gusts would reach over 50 miles per hour. Walking to Parsons that day would not only be wet and unpleasant but also potentially deadly, with the powerful winds and a chance of mudslides. And we couldn’t just hop on a boat back to the city: the whiteboard in front of the booking office informed us that the only outbound ferry that day was canceled. Below this depressing news was written, with a smiley face, “The bar opens at noon.” We were marooned.

So we embraced it. In the cafe we met Patrick, a local fish farmer who was dressed like a longshoreman but talked like a scientist. He told us his life story, which we would hear repeated to several other people that afternoon. He offered to drive us up to the Banning House Lodge, an old mansion and hotel with a fireplace.