26 October, 2001
William O. Douglas Wilderness
Thursday, Day Nine
Around three miles to go. I will reach the highway, today. The map says the PCT will climb around 300' in elevation over the next 2 1/2 miles, where it will meet the Tipsoo Lake Trail, a loop trail from Highway 410. Both sides of the loop lead to the road, but the easterly route leads to a rest area at its end. I've been trying to decide what to do once I get there. I could hitch a ride to Crystal Mountain where they have medics on staff, and buses to points west. Or do I simply phone the Highway Patrol and request assistance? I suppose I will cross that particular bridge when I arrive. Though, a lot can still happen in three miles.
As the water heats up for breakfast, I unzip the rear tent flap and peer out, to see what the weather has left me overnight. I'm happy to find everything still secured on the clothesline, in spite of the winds. I notice, too, the snow has become patchier. A similar look out the front reveals the trail is still deep in snow, at least the top of my boots. Temperature seems milder. Apparently the overcast skies held in some warmth.
I finish up breakfast and drain the water bottles down my throat. And begin attaching the makeshift "gators". They have worked well. Shortly, with everything packed, nice and dry, I head out, still carrying the wooden staff I had made. So many times I was glad to have had it during the climbs up the mountains. Still one more climb to make.
The trees have begun shedding large drops of water, as the snow on the branches begins to melt. They are beginning to clear the trail, but there is still plenty of white. I stop and, once more, take a big drink of water before heading into the treeline. The blood that had appeared in my urine is gone. The trail through the forest is easily followed. As the snow recedes, the banks of the trail are much easier to see.
I slosh through the wet snow on a westerly course as it curves sharply, back-and-forth, in short descents and even longer climbs, moving steadily up the mountain. Pausing for breath after every 70-80 yards, I am still, within a short time, out of the soggy basin and nearing the upper end of the treeline. As I make my way out of the trees, the snow reappears, as deep as before, on a trail which grows ever more steep. It's only fitting that this last stretch should be a reminder of what has come before.
Immediately, I begin to struggle, energy reserves all but used up. The snow, with the added moisture, has become heavy. Back to forty, fifty yards, then rest. Then thirty. Twenty, my heart pounding. It takes me two hours to climb the mountain. And when I reach the signpost for the Tipsoo Lake Trail, I drop to the snow beside it.
The distance to the highway appears to be much farther than what my trusty guidebook indicates. The signpost informs me it is 1.4 or 1.6 more miles to the highway, depending on which part of the loop you take. After a quick rest, I take the shorter route.
I haven't moved more than twenty yards when I see hikers heading towards me. Relieved, I stop, leaning on my staff. Two men and two boys. Not dressed for anything more than a day hike. I greet them. As they approach, one of the men says, "We didn't expect to see anyone up here. You come from the lake?" I laugh and shake my head, explaining that I have been out here in the snow for nine days. And that I am very glad to see them. They gather around me, asking questions. And I talk of where I started, where I've been, the snow, exhaustion, dehydration. I ask if there is a phone at the rest stop. There is not. They ask me to have lunch with them. They brought a stove, hot chocolate, food. And they can get me to a phone. I express my appreciation and follow them.
Very quickly I fall behind, and even stop to rest. They continue on, and in that moment I realize that no one is going to understand what I have been through. The physical and mental demands. The story will be no more than a matter of interest. And no one will comprehend the threatening situations I had put myself through. Maybe it's better they don't. They would likely think me a fool.
Eventually, I catch up with them in a group of small trees, next to the trail. Snow begins to fall. One of the men offers me a piece of jerky, as the other is prepping his stove. I drop the pack, and then myself, under the tarp they had strung up. The jerky is incredibly delicious.
We introduce ourselves. They are from Renton, Scout leaders, on a day hike. The boys are not their sons. Just Scouts. They are friendly and generous. And the first human voices I had heard in some time. They ask about my trip, and I explain the original plan, and how it quickly came apart. I kid the boys about the relevance of the Scout motto: "Always be prepared".
The man has some difficulty getting his stove going. It appears to be well used. And the cold won't allow the gas valve to open. The other man pulls out a sterno can, and I inform them I have a stove in my pack. I break it out and in less than a minute it is blazing, heating up water for hot chocolate.
I ask if I've missed anything. Afghanistan? Mariners make it to the World Series? They get the boys their hot chocolate, and mix one up for me. They ask about Dewey Lake for a future Scout trip. We make jokes, and they hand me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Best I ever tasted. Snowflakes are getting larger. And as I look out across the mountainside, I can finally allow myself to appreciate its beauty. An adversary for most of my trip. But it is beautiful and majestic, and unchanging. Long before me. And long after I am gone.
Soon, we are all headed down the mountain. And in twenty minutes we are in their car. They take me all the way to Auburn, where I find a motel. They wish me "good luck", and I remind them they now have "karma credits". They drive away, heading for Renton and their homes.
Leaving my pack outside, I go into the motel to get a room. I am disheveled, with a scrubby beard, and likely an odor. But they give me a room. I fetch my pack from outside. And as I move back through the lobby the young man at the desk looks at me questioningly. I quickly realize the machete is lashed to the pack, in plain sight. "I just spent nine days in the mountains ...", I offer as I move to the elevator.
Once inside the clean, starched room, I feel out of place as I drop my pack. More than a week in the wilderness, getting by on wits and grit, with minimal luxuries. And now I'm in a room where nothing's out of place. Beds without a wrinkle. Towels all folded and stacked on a rack in the bathroom, with the little wrapped soaps and plastic cups. Complementary shampoo. And a little cardboard tent that says, "Sanitized for your convenience". It dawns on me that I'm the only unsanitary thing in the room.
I begin to unpack all of the gear that served me so well in the wilds. And I fill the room with all manner of equipment and clothing and bags, and what remains of my food. I crank the heat, slide out of my wool pants and boots and overshirt, plop onto the bed and ... what else? ... click on the TV. It's a football game. And as I rest, I watch the game. Camped out in a motel room.
Soon, I realize I still have to find the way back to Olympia. But first I pick up the phone and place a call to my roommates, Gabe and Amanda. Nobody answers, so I leave a message. Where I am, quite an ordeal, I'm OK and making arrangements for Olympia. I spend the next hour making calls to local transit, Greyhound, Amtrak. I finally get it sorted out. Transit bus to downtown Seattle, a Greyhound bus to Olympia. Amanda and Gabe return my call, telling me how worried they had been. Amanda's father, Bernie, had alerted them to the conditions on the mountain, saying he was concerned.
All of the pressing concerns taken care of, I leave the motel and grab some fast food. Cheeseburger and fries. I don't eat a lot of meat anymore. But sometimes you just have to give in to the temptation. I grab some donuts at a quik-stop on the way back. And snatch some free coffee from the lobby of the motel, and head back to the room. After a while, fully relaxed, donuts half gone, it's time for a shower. A long ... LONG hot shower.
After the shower, I hang anything still damp near the heat register, and slide between crisp sheets. And on fluffy pillows, I drift off. The journey is over. And I had made it. Survival 101, and I had passed. A trip I'd been planning for months. A little time away, where I could be alone. And I had gotten more than I had bargained for.
Looking back, I have realized it was an experience that changed me in profound ways. You realize what is really important in life. The "life inventory" I had performed, when I thought I would not make it out, gave me insight into a personal selfishness that I had been living my life under. Since that time, though I remain in tune to self, I have repaired many relationships with those I love. And it has made me a better human.
Then, too, the experience of being forced to do what needed to be done in the face of extreme adversity - to simply put one foot in front of the other and keep going - has served me well in some very trying times since that trip. Facing ordeals of cancer, homelessness, and many other situations not notable enough to mention, I have been able to just "do what I have to do", and keep going. Without giving up. Without the surrender of depression. And I have survived. I recall some family members, over the years, telling me that whenever they asked my father if he thought I was OK, he usually replied, "Mike's a survivor". But sometimes it takes exposure to the extreme situations in life to find out what you are capable of. And each time you go through it, and pull through, it gives you more confidence in your own abilities. What you're capable of. Captain Dan sitting on the mast in the squall, screaming, "Is that all you got?" And you survive. You survive.
May 31, 2018
May 30, 2018
IN THE JOURNEY, Part Four
24 October, 2001
Trail #958 & PCT
Wednesday, Day Seven
The seventh day. And nowhere near where I thought I'd be. Not even contemplating Snoqualmie Pass, now. That was to be my end destination. Just hoping, at this point, I can make it to Highway 410, near Crystal Mountain. Trail will, supposedly, take me right to it. Another 6 1/2 miles away. Yesterday, a full day of hiking only brought me 2 1/2 miles closer. That's it. So, I am figuring another two full days, maybe three.
Woke up early. Not a restful night. Weather kept switching between light rain and light snow. Nearly everything is either wet or damp. There just hasn't been any chance to dry anything. I do still have a pair of thermals and two pair of socks that are dry. Low on water, too. I used snow for breakfast, to conserve. The tradeoff being too much fuel used for the results. Still, I was able to fill one water bottle before packing up.
Inventoried the essentials. Five or six days of food left. Still one full fuel bottle. Ripped a gash on my left hand, yesterday. The base of the index finger. Pulled out the first-aid kit and redressed it. Decide to wear rain pants, in order to keep the wool pants as dry as possible. Overcast. Clouds, or fog. Feeling very fatigued.
I decide to lighten my load before moving on. Going through every item I've brought, I begin to eliminate anything I can do without. I leave behind two tupperware containers. Inside them are things like a knife sharpener, duplicate first-aid bandages, a military issue splint, shoelaces, a pack of chewing gum, extra baggies, lip balm, extra matches, etc.. A nice little surprise for the next one to come this way. Picking up the containers, I estimate I've lightened my load by 2 1/2 to 3 pounds. Not a lot. But under current circumstances, every ounce counts. And as I swing the pack onto my back I could swear it feels lighter.
The work is much the same as the day before. Slow. Snow is still deep, and the trail still climbs. I seem to be tiring quicker, now. Not more than half a mile along I am doubled over, gasping for breath. Knee deep in the snow. As I wait for my heart to slow from a pounding to a regular beat, I notice what resembles a water spider moving across the snow beside me. Looks effortless. What I wouldn't give for some snow shoes. I consider making my own. With each step, trying to work out a design in my head. But I soon jettison the idea as being too time intensive to make anything workable.
Trail moves back to open landscape before long, and the difficulty of locating the trail returns. I find elk tracks and follow for awhile, keeping an eye on the compass. Then the tracks make a sudden turn and go straight up the mountainside. Must have gotten tired of being followed. Well, I'm not going that way. I'm on my own, now. The topo map helps me maintain a direction. But the need to find the trail lies in the amount of energy I am quickly using up.
The Pacific Crest Trail is not a new one. At least, not this portion. It has been crossed by thousands before me. As a result, the walking path often resembles a creek bed, with small banks on each side. When covered in snow, the tops of those banks are usually where the snow is shallowest. I'd been utilizing this technique for a couple of days, and it had saved me untold grief. It was always easy to tell when you had stepped off of the "ridge". It was like walking off of a step you didn't know was there. When you lose the trail completely, the conditions are even worse. Picture Jeremiah Johnson, up to your waist in snow. Kicking up a great spray of snow with every step you put forward.
I should have crossed Anderson Lake within the first mile-and-a-half. Nothing yet. Then I spy what appears to be the crest saddle I am looking for. (Forty, fifty yards ... stop and rest. Forty more ... a breather.) By the time I reach the saddle and move through it, I am hoping for some downhill. And I find it. I find the trail, too. Switchbacking and snaking down the mountain, and back into some forest.
The day remains heavily overcast. But I estimate it is already 1:00. I follow the trail into the trees, still taking the occasional rest. Up to 80-100 yards now before I have to stop. The snow is still deep. A quarter of an hour and I am at Anderson Lake. I drop the pack and scout the trail. Should be a camping area. But if it's here, it's buried under the snow. I make the opportunity to heat up some water for cider, and have another look at the map. Dewey Lake is only another 1.8 miles. From there it's only another 3.2 to the highway.
I've noticed the trees are shedding wet snow, again. In some places these drops have nearly cleared the trail of snowcover. Away from the trees, not much else has changed. I look across the lake, but all I see is the water beginning to thaw, near the shoreline. Everything else is covered in white. I pull out the water purifier and move to the edge of the lake, refilling my water bottles. After a long drink, I decide to get moving and try to make Dewey Lake. The weather has been kinder for a couple of days. And I need to keep moving closer to civilization during the respite. Even a mile becomes daunting if it decides to drop another two or three inches.
The trail climbs through forest, and soon back around another spur ridge. The going gets easier, with the snow now only up to my shins. As I begin another descent my pace quickens, anxious to make the lake. The forest soon opens up, and the trail leads me to a vast, clear area, covered in snow. It must be Dewey Lake. My trail ends abruptly at the lake's outlet. A sizeable creek with no bridge across. Scrambling across rocks and fallen timbers appears to be my only option. It appears I am at the southeast corner of the lake. That would be right, looking at the map. It also means the trail crossing the creek should be Dewey Way Trail #968A, which follows around the eastern shoreline, before circling around to the Pacific Crest Trail, again. No sense in going that way. The PCT supposedly hugs the southern shoreline. But I can't see where it begins or ends. Hell, I can't even determine the shoreline, for certain. There is reason for caution along this stretch. Real nice if I stepped off into the lake. The sun has peeked through. Near 5:00, as I figure it. Too bad it's so late in the day. The sun could have done more to dissipate the snow.
I pick out a spot, near the creek, where I can pitch the tent and break out the little orange shovel. I won't be sleeping on ice, tonight. I dig a nice rectangle to fit the tent, going all the way down to dirt. About five inches down. After setting up the tent and stowing away my gear, I rig a clothesline between trees and hang damp clothes, stuff bags, and the rain jacket to dry. And hope for clear weather. I drink large amounts of water, attempting to catch up on my hydration.
Sun begins disappearing beneath the horizon, and the temperature is falling quickly. Sleeping bag is still pretty wet and as I fire up the stove inside the tent, I pull the bag close to dry what I can. Been cooking in the tent for a couple of days now. Using it for heat, as well. Warming fingers and toes. But it's a mixed blessing. Once the stove is off and the heat begins to condense, what have you got? Condensation. As wet as everything already is, I accept the tradeoff.
For dinner I prepare a large pan of lentil soup, and gobble it up with another hard bagel, using it to sop up the juice. Satisfied, I make a cup of hot cider, load the pipe, and check the map under the light of LEDs. Not much farther to go. Still some mountain terrain to cross. Feeling more sure I will make it out. As long as I don't get lost. Or a front decides to dump a ton of snow. I figure, at worst though, I could always leave the pack behind and, without the weight, make it easily to the highway.
The trip is beginning to exact its toll on me. I can feel the severe fatigue. Suddenly, I'm not feeling so well. I try to sleep. But it's cold and damp, and my stomach is churning. I close the upper part of the bag, as much as possible, and wrap the khafiya around my neck. Still cold, I utilize the warmth from my breath in an attempt to heat up the inside of the bag. I am not feeling well, at all. I begin to chug out my breath like a locomotive and slowly it begins to warm. Damnedest thing, though. It feels as though it's getting warmer, but I can't feel my toes. Stomach is now beginning to gurgle. I reach down and feel my toes. They are like ice cubes. I reach down and clasp both sets of toes in my hands, trying to pass on some warmth to them. Feeling begins to return. Pins and needles. That could have been very bad if I had just fallen asleep for the night.
Really not feeling well at all, now. Stomach taking on a life of it's own. Serious problems down there. Toes are still chilly, but better. Bag's warming up fast. And then, naturally, an irresistible urge to pee. "Ahhhhhhhhh!!!"
I make it quick, going out the front of the tent, and slide back into the bag. Start over with the breathing to warm the bag. Stomach, by now, is having major issues. I begin belching, one after another, and feel feverish. Put my hand on my forehead. Clammy. Then comes that all-too-familiar sensation. Salivary glands are kicking into high gear. "No, no, no." I begin swallowing quickly to buy seconds. Stay down there. Just stay down. I climb out of the bag and unzip the tent. I sit in the door, swallowing hard, oblivious to the cold. To everything but the rumbling of the volcano. And for a brief moment, I feel better. Then it erupts.
Throwing open the tent flap, I plunge my head outside, just in time. My entire lentil dinner explodes out and onto the snow. It was such a violent rejection, there wasn't any mess. Boom! ... done.
I close the tent, awash with sudden chills that move in waves over me. I crawl back into the bag. But the process begins, again. Churning, belching, salivating, swallowing. With the same result. And no sooner had I finished that episode, then nature called, again. I slipped into just my boots, with no regard for the cold. And again went outside the tent.
But, when it was over, it was over. Not more than an hour after dinner, my stomach is empty. It is now silent, content with its efficiency. The rest of my body, however, has had it with the whole stupid mess. I lay in the bag, completely drained, yet still unable to sleep. My entire body has turned cold. Not even a warm breath, now. I toss and turn, and begin drifting in and out of delirium. Just can't seem to find warmth anywhere. I slink down in the bag, until I begin to feel a draft seeping in from the top. I find the drawstring and cinch it up tight, and begin to hallucinate, seeing the face of an old man with frosted whiskers. Waiting patiently outside the bag until there is an opening he can softly blow through with icy breath.
Now I am imagining the parts of my body as departments in one, big company. The Mouth complaining to the Interior Department, asking it to send up some heat so we can warm this place up. Interior saying it's gonna' be awhile. They sent out the last of the heat with that last shipment. And if the Mouth had been doing a little quality control and not sent that crap down in the first place, then there might be some heat! And then there's Transportation, where the feet never pull their own weight regarding heat. They, of course, always blame it on Circulation, who says they used to send heat down to Transportation. But even when everyone else was doing their jobs, and warming things up, Transportation was doing nothing. And as I lay in the bag, I am thoroughly disgusted with all of them.
At some point, I drift into sleep. Or pass out. Hard to say which. But sometime, during my delirium, I devise a plan to construct some "gators". My rain pants had taken a pounding from the deep snow, and were now shredded. But if I cut them off at the knees and wrap my legs with the material, from shins to bootheals, I could keep the snow out of my boots. I could use the elastic thigh wraps in the first-aid kit to secure them. And then run a short cord attached to the cuffs of the wool pants and under the bottom of the boots to keep them from creeping up. Piece of pie. I had no idea when I had devised this. But when I awoke the next morning, there it was . All planned out.
25 October, 2001
Dewey Lake
William O. Douglas Wilderness
Thursday, Day Eight
I wake pretty ragged. But, other than the fatigue, not too bad. Have my usual breakfast, though hesitantly. I eat slow, testing the waters. But it stays down. Spend some time in the tent, using the stove to dry out socks, gloves, shirt, and to warm up. First fuel bottle finally runs out. The last third of the bottle went pretty fast. Decide to monitor my fuel use more closely. I'm not out of here just yet.
As I begin to pack up, the sun is peeking through. The things I had hung to dry are still damp, but an improvement. All loaded and ready to go, I do a short exploratory hike, looking for the trail. Snow is still deep, so I don't venture far. And I don't find the trail, either. According to the map, at the western edge of the lake it crosses an outlet and heads northwest, into the trees. Scanning the treeline in that direction reveals nothing.
Backpack slung, I set out along the shoreline. Still difficult to tell where the water ends and the shore begins, and I'd rather not find out the hard way. So, I give a fairly wide berth from where I judge it to be. Should pick up the trail at the far side of the lake. But as I reach a hopeful opening in the trees, I find it is not the trail. Moving to another possibility, I find the same.
I keep moving along the treeline until I come to a primitive wooden table, with an old metal fuel can on it. Appears to maybe be a campsite. But there's no path through the trees from here, either. I keep thinking it has to be here somewhere. The snow disguises everything.
I drop the pack onto the rickety table. No sense in carrying it if I'm just going to wander all over the hillside. And that's exactly what I do. Up the hill, across, back down, back across. Why can't I find it? So much snow. I'm just not seeing it.
Returning to the pack, I check the map against the compass and find a heading. I'll just have to steer a course, and eventually I'll either cross the trail, or the highway. I move in a direction that assures me I will at least meet the highway, should I miss the trail. I need to continue northwest. A quick scan of the surrounding landscape makes me realize that, where I need to go, my way is blocked by the sheer cliffs of a mountain. The only way open is a northerly route that skirts the mountain. The trail on the topo just seems way off. Although, according to the map, it breaks back northeast before then heading almost due north. Maybe the route I am taking is actually cutting across the switchbacks. If that's the case, I am sure to cross the trail. Question is, will I be able to recognize it?
I make a traverse up the mountain, still keeping an eye for any change in the land that even resembles a trail. Still pausing often to rest, as I am essentially bushwhacking now. (Snowwhacking?) I stay mostly in the trees as I begin to round the mountain. The way here is a little easier than the drifted snow of the valley floor. Rather than rounding the mountain at the base, I've chosen the high country. Up here I can get a better view of where the land is going, and may even be able to shorten the distance. Making attempts to gain some gradual elevation, it is not long before I reach the peak. Although I've wasted more than an hour looking for the trail to begin the day, I feel as though I am making it up by traveling high along the mountain.
I soon come to what I can tell is the edge of a sheer cliff. Not unexpected. My options now are to continue over the top of the ridge. Or drop back down to skirt the base of the mountain. Leaving the pack in the snow, I plod a short distance back down and look for a route. Appears doable. But I am growing tired. And all I want now is the easiest way. I work my way back up to the pack and sit for a breather, scanning the top of the mountain, a mere twenty yards away. I move to the small trees clustered there to have a look, and suddenly it all becomes crystal clear.
The cliff overlooks a large bowl. And in it is the largest cobalt-blue body of water I have encountered this trip. And I realize ... THAT ... is Dewey Lake. And I wonder what lake I camped by last night. Clearly not marked on the map. Who cares. All I know is that, for the first time in two days, I know exactly where I am.
Anxious now, I move quickly down the steep, snow covered slope. And half way down I find what is, without a doubt, the elusive Pacific Crest Trail. Still piled with snow, but unmistakable As I near the lake, the breeze picks up, and I can feel the cold, moist air which is blowing across the water. By the time I reach the lake it is gusting. Although exhausted and still dehydrated, my spirits begin to pick up, knowing I am less than four hard miles from civilization.
The camping area looks heavily used, and the campsites are everywhere. Posted signs read, "Closed For Ground Restoration Project". But I am thrilled to find the snow mostly melted. Still at my boot tops, the snow had turned wet, and had become patchy in areas. I loped along the shoreline, looking for a reasonably dry site. Eventually choosing a spot under some tree cover, near the lake's outlet which I would have to cross tomorrow.
As I set up camp, the sun briefly pushes under, rather than through, the cloud cover. The breeze from the lake was still brisk, so I hung much of the wettest gear to dry from some small fir trees. With the trench dug for the tent, the tent in place, and the gear stowed, I checked the rain fly, which had been hung out. And was pleased to find it dry. The sleeping bag, too, was nearly dry. This made me particularly happy. Convinced of this new efficiency, I dug out every article that was even remotely damp, strung a clothesline, and hung it all to dry.
Feeling satisfied, I light my pipe and move a short distance away, to relieve myself. I am startled to find there is blood in my urine. "Damn. Now what?" Though I knpw very well. I had been drinking more than a liter of water a day for the last two days. And it still wasn't enough. My dehydration had reached a critical level. So, I grabbed the water bottles and the purifier and moved lakeside to replenish, as the last light faded.
Back in the tent, I made a simple dinner, with lots of fluids. It did not include lentils, which I had suddenly lost a taste for. There remained two more days of food in the pack, and plenty of fuel. I was disappointed to use my last pack of hot cider mix. Dinner over, I light up my pipe and begin drinking more water. The water for my physiology, the pipe for my psychology.
I let the stove burn a little longer, enjoying the warmth while I check the map. Mentally, I'm very tired. And still concerned, about the weather, about the snow, and about the blood. But much better than at any time over the last three days. My spirit has rekindled. Physically, I am near exhaustion. From hiking through all of the deep snow, moving up mountains. And from very little restful sleep. You can throw in the stomach ordeal, as well. But, all-in-all, I've been lucky. With all of the challenges I encountered, and there were many, I have moved through each and every one, and pulled through. Though very tired, I am indeed, very lucky.
With the stove out and stowed away, I crawl into a dry bag. The first time it's been dry in a week. Wind is still blowing, but dropping. And by the time I've warmed the bag, it has stopped altogether. Very still outside. And very quiet. I become aware that I do not hear the snow cats, grooming the snow. I take that as a good sign. And on that note, I count my blessings, instead of sheep, and sleep a good, sound sleep.
Trail #958 & PCT
Wednesday, Day Seven
The seventh day. And nowhere near where I thought I'd be. Not even contemplating Snoqualmie Pass, now. That was to be my end destination. Just hoping, at this point, I can make it to Highway 410, near Crystal Mountain. Trail will, supposedly, take me right to it. Another 6 1/2 miles away. Yesterday, a full day of hiking only brought me 2 1/2 miles closer. That's it. So, I am figuring another two full days, maybe three.
Woke up early. Not a restful night. Weather kept switching between light rain and light snow. Nearly everything is either wet or damp. There just hasn't been any chance to dry anything. I do still have a pair of thermals and two pair of socks that are dry. Low on water, too. I used snow for breakfast, to conserve. The tradeoff being too much fuel used for the results. Still, I was able to fill one water bottle before packing up.
Inventoried the essentials. Five or six days of food left. Still one full fuel bottle. Ripped a gash on my left hand, yesterday. The base of the index finger. Pulled out the first-aid kit and redressed it. Decide to wear rain pants, in order to keep the wool pants as dry as possible. Overcast. Clouds, or fog. Feeling very fatigued.
I decide to lighten my load before moving on. Going through every item I've brought, I begin to eliminate anything I can do without. I leave behind two tupperware containers. Inside them are things like a knife sharpener, duplicate first-aid bandages, a military issue splint, shoelaces, a pack of chewing gum, extra baggies, lip balm, extra matches, etc.. A nice little surprise for the next one to come this way. Picking up the containers, I estimate I've lightened my load by 2 1/2 to 3 pounds. Not a lot. But under current circumstances, every ounce counts. And as I swing the pack onto my back I could swear it feels lighter.
The work is much the same as the day before. Slow. Snow is still deep, and the trail still climbs. I seem to be tiring quicker, now. Not more than half a mile along I am doubled over, gasping for breath. Knee deep in the snow. As I wait for my heart to slow from a pounding to a regular beat, I notice what resembles a water spider moving across the snow beside me. Looks effortless. What I wouldn't give for some snow shoes. I consider making my own. With each step, trying to work out a design in my head. But I soon jettison the idea as being too time intensive to make anything workable.
Trail moves back to open landscape before long, and the difficulty of locating the trail returns. I find elk tracks and follow for awhile, keeping an eye on the compass. Then the tracks make a sudden turn and go straight up the mountainside. Must have gotten tired of being followed. Well, I'm not going that way. I'm on my own, now. The topo map helps me maintain a direction. But the need to find the trail lies in the amount of energy I am quickly using up.
The Pacific Crest Trail is not a new one. At least, not this portion. It has been crossed by thousands before me. As a result, the walking path often resembles a creek bed, with small banks on each side. When covered in snow, the tops of those banks are usually where the snow is shallowest. I'd been utilizing this technique for a couple of days, and it had saved me untold grief. It was always easy to tell when you had stepped off of the "ridge". It was like walking off of a step you didn't know was there. When you lose the trail completely, the conditions are even worse. Picture Jeremiah Johnson, up to your waist in snow. Kicking up a great spray of snow with every step you put forward.
I should have crossed Anderson Lake within the first mile-and-a-half. Nothing yet. Then I spy what appears to be the crest saddle I am looking for. (Forty, fifty yards ... stop and rest. Forty more ... a breather.) By the time I reach the saddle and move through it, I am hoping for some downhill. And I find it. I find the trail, too. Switchbacking and snaking down the mountain, and back into some forest.
The day remains heavily overcast. But I estimate it is already 1:00. I follow the trail into the trees, still taking the occasional rest. Up to 80-100 yards now before I have to stop. The snow is still deep. A quarter of an hour and I am at Anderson Lake. I drop the pack and scout the trail. Should be a camping area. But if it's here, it's buried under the snow. I make the opportunity to heat up some water for cider, and have another look at the map. Dewey Lake is only another 1.8 miles. From there it's only another 3.2 to the highway.
I've noticed the trees are shedding wet snow, again. In some places these drops have nearly cleared the trail of snowcover. Away from the trees, not much else has changed. I look across the lake, but all I see is the water beginning to thaw, near the shoreline. Everything else is covered in white. I pull out the water purifier and move to the edge of the lake, refilling my water bottles. After a long drink, I decide to get moving and try to make Dewey Lake. The weather has been kinder for a couple of days. And I need to keep moving closer to civilization during the respite. Even a mile becomes daunting if it decides to drop another two or three inches.
The trail climbs through forest, and soon back around another spur ridge. The going gets easier, with the snow now only up to my shins. As I begin another descent my pace quickens, anxious to make the lake. The forest soon opens up, and the trail leads me to a vast, clear area, covered in snow. It must be Dewey Lake. My trail ends abruptly at the lake's outlet. A sizeable creek with no bridge across. Scrambling across rocks and fallen timbers appears to be my only option. It appears I am at the southeast corner of the lake. That would be right, looking at the map. It also means the trail crossing the creek should be Dewey Way Trail #968A, which follows around the eastern shoreline, before circling around to the Pacific Crest Trail, again. No sense in going that way. The PCT supposedly hugs the southern shoreline. But I can't see where it begins or ends. Hell, I can't even determine the shoreline, for certain. There is reason for caution along this stretch. Real nice if I stepped off into the lake. The sun has peeked through. Near 5:00, as I figure it. Too bad it's so late in the day. The sun could have done more to dissipate the snow.
I pick out a spot, near the creek, where I can pitch the tent and break out the little orange shovel. I won't be sleeping on ice, tonight. I dig a nice rectangle to fit the tent, going all the way down to dirt. About five inches down. After setting up the tent and stowing away my gear, I rig a clothesline between trees and hang damp clothes, stuff bags, and the rain jacket to dry. And hope for clear weather. I drink large amounts of water, attempting to catch up on my hydration.
Sun begins disappearing beneath the horizon, and the temperature is falling quickly. Sleeping bag is still pretty wet and as I fire up the stove inside the tent, I pull the bag close to dry what I can. Been cooking in the tent for a couple of days now. Using it for heat, as well. Warming fingers and toes. But it's a mixed blessing. Once the stove is off and the heat begins to condense, what have you got? Condensation. As wet as everything already is, I accept the tradeoff.
For dinner I prepare a large pan of lentil soup, and gobble it up with another hard bagel, using it to sop up the juice. Satisfied, I make a cup of hot cider, load the pipe, and check the map under the light of LEDs. Not much farther to go. Still some mountain terrain to cross. Feeling more sure I will make it out. As long as I don't get lost. Or a front decides to dump a ton of snow. I figure, at worst though, I could always leave the pack behind and, without the weight, make it easily to the highway.
The trip is beginning to exact its toll on me. I can feel the severe fatigue. Suddenly, I'm not feeling so well. I try to sleep. But it's cold and damp, and my stomach is churning. I close the upper part of the bag, as much as possible, and wrap the khafiya around my neck. Still cold, I utilize the warmth from my breath in an attempt to heat up the inside of the bag. I am not feeling well, at all. I begin to chug out my breath like a locomotive and slowly it begins to warm. Damnedest thing, though. It feels as though it's getting warmer, but I can't feel my toes. Stomach is now beginning to gurgle. I reach down and feel my toes. They are like ice cubes. I reach down and clasp both sets of toes in my hands, trying to pass on some warmth to them. Feeling begins to return. Pins and needles. That could have been very bad if I had just fallen asleep for the night.
Really not feeling well at all, now. Stomach taking on a life of it's own. Serious problems down there. Toes are still chilly, but better. Bag's warming up fast. And then, naturally, an irresistible urge to pee. "Ahhhhhhhhh!!!"
I make it quick, going out the front of the tent, and slide back into the bag. Start over with the breathing to warm the bag. Stomach, by now, is having major issues. I begin belching, one after another, and feel feverish. Put my hand on my forehead. Clammy. Then comes that all-too-familiar sensation. Salivary glands are kicking into high gear. "No, no, no." I begin swallowing quickly to buy seconds. Stay down there. Just stay down. I climb out of the bag and unzip the tent. I sit in the door, swallowing hard, oblivious to the cold. To everything but the rumbling of the volcano. And for a brief moment, I feel better. Then it erupts.
Throwing open the tent flap, I plunge my head outside, just in time. My entire lentil dinner explodes out and onto the snow. It was such a violent rejection, there wasn't any mess. Boom! ... done.
I close the tent, awash with sudden chills that move in waves over me. I crawl back into the bag. But the process begins, again. Churning, belching, salivating, swallowing. With the same result. And no sooner had I finished that episode, then nature called, again. I slipped into just my boots, with no regard for the cold. And again went outside the tent.
But, when it was over, it was over. Not more than an hour after dinner, my stomach is empty. It is now silent, content with its efficiency. The rest of my body, however, has had it with the whole stupid mess. I lay in the bag, completely drained, yet still unable to sleep. My entire body has turned cold. Not even a warm breath, now. I toss and turn, and begin drifting in and out of delirium. Just can't seem to find warmth anywhere. I slink down in the bag, until I begin to feel a draft seeping in from the top. I find the drawstring and cinch it up tight, and begin to hallucinate, seeing the face of an old man with frosted whiskers. Waiting patiently outside the bag until there is an opening he can softly blow through with icy breath.
Now I am imagining the parts of my body as departments in one, big company. The Mouth complaining to the Interior Department, asking it to send up some heat so we can warm this place up. Interior saying it's gonna' be awhile. They sent out the last of the heat with that last shipment. And if the Mouth had been doing a little quality control and not sent that crap down in the first place, then there might be some heat! And then there's Transportation, where the feet never pull their own weight regarding heat. They, of course, always blame it on Circulation, who says they used to send heat down to Transportation. But even when everyone else was doing their jobs, and warming things up, Transportation was doing nothing. And as I lay in the bag, I am thoroughly disgusted with all of them.
At some point, I drift into sleep. Or pass out. Hard to say which. But sometime, during my delirium, I devise a plan to construct some "gators". My rain pants had taken a pounding from the deep snow, and were now shredded. But if I cut them off at the knees and wrap my legs with the material, from shins to bootheals, I could keep the snow out of my boots. I could use the elastic thigh wraps in the first-aid kit to secure them. And then run a short cord attached to the cuffs of the wool pants and under the bottom of the boots to keep them from creeping up. Piece of pie. I had no idea when I had devised this. But when I awoke the next morning, there it was . All planned out.
25 October, 2001
Dewey Lake
William O. Douglas Wilderness
Thursday, Day Eight
I wake pretty ragged. But, other than the fatigue, not too bad. Have my usual breakfast, though hesitantly. I eat slow, testing the waters. But it stays down. Spend some time in the tent, using the stove to dry out socks, gloves, shirt, and to warm up. First fuel bottle finally runs out. The last third of the bottle went pretty fast. Decide to monitor my fuel use more closely. I'm not out of here just yet.
As I begin to pack up, the sun is peeking through. The things I had hung to dry are still damp, but an improvement. All loaded and ready to go, I do a short exploratory hike, looking for the trail. Snow is still deep, so I don't venture far. And I don't find the trail, either. According to the map, at the western edge of the lake it crosses an outlet and heads northwest, into the trees. Scanning the treeline in that direction reveals nothing.
Backpack slung, I set out along the shoreline. Still difficult to tell where the water ends and the shore begins, and I'd rather not find out the hard way. So, I give a fairly wide berth from where I judge it to be. Should pick up the trail at the far side of the lake. But as I reach a hopeful opening in the trees, I find it is not the trail. Moving to another possibility, I find the same.
I keep moving along the treeline until I come to a primitive wooden table, with an old metal fuel can on it. Appears to maybe be a campsite. But there's no path through the trees from here, either. I keep thinking it has to be here somewhere. The snow disguises everything.
I drop the pack onto the rickety table. No sense in carrying it if I'm just going to wander all over the hillside. And that's exactly what I do. Up the hill, across, back down, back across. Why can't I find it? So much snow. I'm just not seeing it.
Returning to the pack, I check the map against the compass and find a heading. I'll just have to steer a course, and eventually I'll either cross the trail, or the highway. I move in a direction that assures me I will at least meet the highway, should I miss the trail. I need to continue northwest. A quick scan of the surrounding landscape makes me realize that, where I need to go, my way is blocked by the sheer cliffs of a mountain. The only way open is a northerly route that skirts the mountain. The trail on the topo just seems way off. Although, according to the map, it breaks back northeast before then heading almost due north. Maybe the route I am taking is actually cutting across the switchbacks. If that's the case, I am sure to cross the trail. Question is, will I be able to recognize it?
I make a traverse up the mountain, still keeping an eye for any change in the land that even resembles a trail. Still pausing often to rest, as I am essentially bushwhacking now. (Snowwhacking?) I stay mostly in the trees as I begin to round the mountain. The way here is a little easier than the drifted snow of the valley floor. Rather than rounding the mountain at the base, I've chosen the high country. Up here I can get a better view of where the land is going, and may even be able to shorten the distance. Making attempts to gain some gradual elevation, it is not long before I reach the peak. Although I've wasted more than an hour looking for the trail to begin the day, I feel as though I am making it up by traveling high along the mountain.
I soon come to what I can tell is the edge of a sheer cliff. Not unexpected. My options now are to continue over the top of the ridge. Or drop back down to skirt the base of the mountain. Leaving the pack in the snow, I plod a short distance back down and look for a route. Appears doable. But I am growing tired. And all I want now is the easiest way. I work my way back up to the pack and sit for a breather, scanning the top of the mountain, a mere twenty yards away. I move to the small trees clustered there to have a look, and suddenly it all becomes crystal clear.
The cliff overlooks a large bowl. And in it is the largest cobalt-blue body of water I have encountered this trip. And I realize ... THAT ... is Dewey Lake. And I wonder what lake I camped by last night. Clearly not marked on the map. Who cares. All I know is that, for the first time in two days, I know exactly where I am.
Anxious now, I move quickly down the steep, snow covered slope. And half way down I find what is, without a doubt, the elusive Pacific Crest Trail. Still piled with snow, but unmistakable As I near the lake, the breeze picks up, and I can feel the cold, moist air which is blowing across the water. By the time I reach the lake it is gusting. Although exhausted and still dehydrated, my spirits begin to pick up, knowing I am less than four hard miles from civilization.
The camping area looks heavily used, and the campsites are everywhere. Posted signs read, "Closed For Ground Restoration Project". But I am thrilled to find the snow mostly melted. Still at my boot tops, the snow had turned wet, and had become patchy in areas. I loped along the shoreline, looking for a reasonably dry site. Eventually choosing a spot under some tree cover, near the lake's outlet which I would have to cross tomorrow.
As I set up camp, the sun briefly pushes under, rather than through, the cloud cover. The breeze from the lake was still brisk, so I hung much of the wettest gear to dry from some small fir trees. With the trench dug for the tent, the tent in place, and the gear stowed, I checked the rain fly, which had been hung out. And was pleased to find it dry. The sleeping bag, too, was nearly dry. This made me particularly happy. Convinced of this new efficiency, I dug out every article that was even remotely damp, strung a clothesline, and hung it all to dry.
Feeling satisfied, I light my pipe and move a short distance away, to relieve myself. I am startled to find there is blood in my urine. "Damn. Now what?" Though I knpw very well. I had been drinking more than a liter of water a day for the last two days. And it still wasn't enough. My dehydration had reached a critical level. So, I grabbed the water bottles and the purifier and moved lakeside to replenish, as the last light faded.
Back in the tent, I made a simple dinner, with lots of fluids. It did not include lentils, which I had suddenly lost a taste for. There remained two more days of food in the pack, and plenty of fuel. I was disappointed to use my last pack of hot cider mix. Dinner over, I light up my pipe and begin drinking more water. The water for my physiology, the pipe for my psychology.
I let the stove burn a little longer, enjoying the warmth while I check the map. Mentally, I'm very tired. And still concerned, about the weather, about the snow, and about the blood. But much better than at any time over the last three days. My spirit has rekindled. Physically, I am near exhaustion. From hiking through all of the deep snow, moving up mountains. And from very little restful sleep. You can throw in the stomach ordeal, as well. But, all-in-all, I've been lucky. With all of the challenges I encountered, and there were many, I have moved through each and every one, and pulled through. Though very tired, I am indeed, very lucky.
With the stove out and stowed away, I crawl into a dry bag. The first time it's been dry in a week. Wind is still blowing, but dropping. And by the time I've warmed the bag, it has stopped altogether. Very still outside. And very quiet. I become aware that I do not hear the snow cats, grooming the snow. I take that as a good sign. And on that note, I count my blessings, instead of sheep, and sleep a good, sound sleep.
IN THE JOURNEY, Part Three
22 October, 2001 (cont.)
at Bumping Lake Trail
Monday, Day Five
By this time, I'm nearly four miles into the 8.5 I had hoped to cover for the day. Progress is slowing. And as the weather begins to further deteriorate, so do I. The snow depth is now up to my shins and every step is painstaking. It is difficult to tell what lies beneath each step and there is little room for error. One misstep ... a hidden branch, a loose rock you can't see. And the work is getting harder.
I push on another mile. But I've used up my reserves and I'm running on empty. I meet the intersection of Trail #380, which runs a third of a mile, to Two Lakes. The irony of a rare signpost, pointing the way. I move about twenty yards beyond, where the trail turns off to the left, and out of sight. When I reach the bend I discover the trail only continues to rise ever more steeply, up the mountain. And the snow continues to fall.
Despair begins to slowly creep in. Led in all the more easily by fatigue. And I bend over, hands on knees. I stare at my boots in the snow, wondering whether to laugh or cry. I do neither, as I suddenly become aware of a chill moving quickly over my body. I have no more time for despair. Minutes are critical in a situation such as this. I need to rest. And I need to get some warmth back into my body. I move a few feet more, beneath the cover of a large boulder surrounded by fir trees, and begin to unload the camp stove, the pan, and the hot chocolate mix. I fire up the stove. And as the water heats I take another look at the map. The nearest campsite is three miles away.
I make a quick inventory of the facts as I hurriedly pour down the hot chocolate. I've come about six miles on the day, but it's getting near dusk. Maybe two, two-and-a-half hours left. The snow is still coming down, and getting deeper. More work, and slower progress. And I'm damned tired. Even slower progress.
As I finish my warm drink, another thought enters my mind for the first time. Shit! If this snow continues, I will soon not be able to see the trail. Not so bad on the side of the mountain. It's easy to pick out there. But going through the forest, or across a large clearing. What if I lose the trail? Can I afford not to push on, fatigue be damned? But in a situation which has become dynamic, the facts change by the minute. And your options along with them. I am becoming aware that frostbite is contemplating my fingers. Worse, I can't feel my toes. I need to get out of these clothes and into my sleeping bag. NOW!
Leaving my pack for the moment, I trudge through the deep snow, back towards the trail leading to Two Lakes. I can barely make out which way the trail even goes. There's no sense in heading down to the lake. The snow is not going to be any less deep there. And why have to hike all the way back up, through likely even deeper snow, tomorrow? Fuck it! I'm in the middle of the wilderness. I can camp anywhere. I quickly glance up a short rise beside the trail and pick out a level area in the trees. I trudge up to it and find it's fairly free of snow, as well.
In minutes the tent is up and I am inside, hurriedly changing into dry clothes as the stove begins to heat up the interior. Another bullet dodged ... for the moment. Trouble is, there suddenly seem to be so many. And the stark realization of the seriousness of those "bullets" is slowly washing over me. It's not just one thing to deal with, anymore. There are a number of things going badly. All very serious, and equally as critical. If the snow continues to fall, my progress will slow ever more dramatically. Along with the even larger concern of losing the trail completely. I am still not near enough to civilization that I could just pick a direction and walk out of this. Add to that wet gear, danger of frostbite, dehydration. And even avalanche if the snow continues to build up on the mountainside. The sheer number of details demanding my consideration are pushing me to a mental fatigue, as well.
.
After making myself some dinner, I climb straight into my sleeping bag and invite sleep. But it is long in coming. My thoughts are busy going over and over all of the possibilities and options. Any room for error is now gone. I listen to the crystals of the falling snow blowing against the tent, and try not to imagine what conditions I will find in the morning. I should have already fallen into a deep sleep, from sheer physical exhaustion. But I find myself awake and thinking. Thoughts of many things. The foremost being the very real possibility that I may not make it out. There is no one to call. No one around for miles, in any direction. Likely, no one would even find me until the spring thaw. No one is going to help me. And whether I make it out, or not, is going to depend on me. And only me.
I can't help but wonder what thoughts go through another person's mind when confronted with that reality. Do we all think of the same things? Probably not. We surely don't all react in the same way. But I have to imagine that, whether we face it bravely, or break down and cry, we all must surely begin to take some kind of inventory of our lives. People, events, regrets. The "shoulda'", "coulda'", "woulda's". And then the promises to ourselves. "If I make it out of this ...".
I begin thinking first how it is going to affect people. Those I know and love. My roommates, Amanda and Gabe, will have to deal with all of the things I left behind. Damn, I left no instructions or anything, and they'll have to deal with going through it all. That'll be a hard thing to put them through. People I've known from Wolf Haven. From places I've worked and gotten to know people. Dad, my brother. Hard to say how they'll take the news. My friend, Paul. I imagine him as being really hurt by it. And really angry with me for doing such a stupid thing in the first place. A lot of people it will likely affect. But for my Mom, my sisters ... I think it would totally devastate them. Mom would probably never recover. I hadn't even told her I was going because I knew she would just worry the whole time.
I thought of my family. Of how I just up and left them all behind. I hadn't been there for any of them. Just prior to leaving on this trip, I learned that my Uncle Bob had taken a turn for worse with his cancer. I began to remember all of the good times we'd had at Bob and Ruth's house. And I felt guilty for being so selfish and taking this trip. Then I began to add up all of the selfish things I had done, and continued to do. And there were many. I needed to get back home. I should be back home. I need to see my uncle, and my family. I have to make it out of this.
In my curled up hand I held my "medicine bag". A small leather bag containing, in the Native American tradition, sacred relics from my life. "Big medicine." I had carried it with me the entire trip. But I was never without it. Now, I held it tight. And I began to pray to my Native American spirits. To Grandfather, Father, Heaven, and all that is above. To Grandmother, Earth Mother, and all that is below. And to the spirits of the West, North, East, and South. asking for their help. I thanked Creator for keeping me from harm through the ordeal, and helping me find my way. And I asked that he make me strong, and give me courage for tomorrow. I asked for special help from the spirit of the North, who brings the cleansing winds, and the spirit of the East, where the sun comes from, and who brings us wisdom. I asked for the winds to blow away the storm and give me a clear sky. And for the sun to take away the snows, so that I may find my way.
I also began to concentrate on the "medicine bag", and to think about the wolves, whose fur was contained in the bag and was a part of that medicine. And I thought of my time at Wolf Haven. And all of the wolves I had known there. It was then I began to cry. It was a process I had never dealt with until now. My love for all of those animals, and the pain of missing them. Whether gone or still living. And as I thought of each one, and the feelings in my heart, the tears poured through. I then spoke to them, and told them how I loved them. And thanked them for letting me care for them. It was all something I had never allowed myself to do, since leaving Wolf Haven. Finally, I asked for the wolf spirits to be with me. And to give me their strength, their wisdom, and their courage.
The wind had picked up, and the rain fly was flapping continuously against the tent. The sound of the snowflakes could still be heard. I could also hear a roaring sound, in the distance. It had to be the snow cats at Crystal Mountain. It seemed so near. And yet, so very far.
23 October, 2001
near Two Lakes
William O. Douglas Wilderness
Tuesday, Day Six
I awaken, having slept little, as the wind had picked up to a gale-like intensity throughout the night. Looking out the front of the tent I could see the snow had piled up to a depth of around four or five inches in front. Even more on the windward side. I crawled back into the bag and lay for a time, deciding what to do next. Finally, roused by nature, I dressed and made my way outside to relieve myself. There had, indeed, been a fair amount of snow. And the tracks I had made less than a day before were nearly gone. The heavy winds had really drifted the deep snow. They had also blown away several items I thought I had securely hung to dry overnight. My rain jacket was gone. Probably blown down the hillside. I made a limited search, but found nothing but white. I still had the poncho. And I would pray to feel a warm rain at this point.
The winds were now gone. And as I began my day, the sun was even making an appearance. I had my usual breakfast. Then began making ready everything inside the tent for packing up. Although the snow was now nearly up to my knees (even deeper where it had drifted), there was never any doubt that I must keep moving. Still a lot of distance to cover. And, even if the sun remained all day, this amount of snow wasn't going anywhere soon. This small window of fair weather actually made it all the more imperative that I get moving. It wasn't worth delaying, only to see another two inches fall.
I quickly dug out the tent with the little orange shovel I'd almost left at home, and was glad I didn't. I soon found the rain jacket, buried in snow. Evidently stopped, mid-flight, by the tent. In a short time I was ready to move on. The glare on the snow forced me to break out my sunglasses, for the first time. I made a mental note to add "snow blind" to my list of possibilities.
Everywhere I looked was white. And I soon found out the snow had become deep. I tried to pick my way through, looking for high spots to walk on. But it didn't seem to make much of a difference. It was going to be another challenging day. Before starting, I pulled the machete from the pack and found a large branch that had fallen. Whacking off a long, straight piece, I trimmed it up and headed back to the trail, staff in hand.
The first thirty yards gave me some indication of what kind of day it was going to be. My heart was already pounding and I had to stop. It was going to be a day of taking a step, sinking to the knee, kicking through with another step, sinking to the knee .... And, of course, the trail led up. Ever up.
The going was slow. Twenty yards here, rest. Forty yards there, rest. Sometimes only ten. Got to keep moving. Just keep moving. Breathe in, breathe out. Keep the oxygen pumping into those legs. Heart pounding. C'mon, three more steps ... to that tree. Make it as far as the tree. Rest. Gasping for air. Listening to my heart pounding in my ears. I shouted out, "This is fucking ridiculous!". Somehow, that made me feel better. But then, a new thought. What about avalanche? A lot of snow piling up on that hillside. Trees are already losing their snow in big, heavy drops. Might be best to keep my mouth shut. I was already coming across parts of the trail where snow from the uphill side had slid down. Ha! So much for calling out for help. You can laugh, or you can cry.
The going remained agonizingly slow. According to the map, the next campsite was still 2.6 miles away. But by mid-day, I'd probably covered half that distance. The trail just kept going up. Which began to puzzle me. I'd started the day at 5,600'. And the altitude should have been dropping, with the next camp at around 5,300'. With all of the snow, had I walked off of the trail? As doubt begins to creep in, I check the map and the compass, and convince myself I am heading in the right direction. And after a short distance, the trail begins to descend.
I begin to make better time. Although, the snow is still deep. And I still must stop and rest, even going downhill. It's during one of these stops, chest heaving, leaning heavily on the hiking staff, I realize I haven't been sweating. Working my ass off, but .... Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit! I'm dehydrated. I'm low on water, with no water source for at least three miles, and I'm dehydrated. I lean more heavily on the staff and look down at my legs, buried in the snow. And I begin to laugh. Nothing hysterical. Just a mild chuckle. What can you do? I shake my head, and with a big smile ... I move on. What else can you do?
The descent soon levels, and the forest thins out ... and the trail runs out. Actually, it doesn't run out. It's still there. I just can't see it. It has already happened before. Usually, I can take a moment, look at the lay of the land, and figure out where it is headed. Or where it should be. On occasion, I can simply stare and the difference in densities of the snow will actually reveal the trail as appearing whiter, snaking like a ribbon across the landscape. But it's not working this time. The snow, everywhere, is just too deep. And in open country now, I cannot use a clearing through the trees as any clue. Did I miss it, farther back? Or is that it, moving over the rise in front of me? Maybe that's it, curving around that evergreen. Appearing to be the most likely, I move towards it.
In just a few steps, I fall waste-deep into a snow bank. After struggling to pull myself out, I make a small circle and see nothing convincing. I have neither the time, nor the energy, to be wandering in this snow. So, I pull out the map and check my compass. Should be a couple of spur ridges and then abrupt swhitchbacks that bring me to a saddle, and Trail #958. I see ridges, but no trail. Knowing I should be heading northwest, I check the compass and move in that direction.
I haven't moved far before I'm up to my waist, again. This time I just sit and do another visual of the land around me. And I notice, not five paces away - elk tracks. I've noticed this particular elk has preceded me most of the day, staying strictly to the trail through the forest. But meandering off once the land opened up. So ... what are the odds? Does he know where the trail is? Maybe it was me that meandered off of the trail. Hell, it was likely elk who blazed much of the trail, anyway. Sounds good to me. (And please do not get the impression here that I am cool and collected. Losing the trail, at this point, is my worst fear. And while not panicked, I AM bloody well concerned.)
I follow the elk tracks. And while I can still not say whether I am on or off of the trail, the way is certainly easier traveling. Which, of course, makes sense. Energy at this time of year is precious for the elk. And they're not going to waste any. Something I am beginning to relate to. It's not long before the land begins to slope down. And as I reach it's edge, I find the trail. Not unmistakable, but it's there. Sure enough, I begin to cover abrupt swhitchbacks that lead me to a saddle. And with the light beginning to fade, I come upon the well-marked intersection of Trail #958. I'm hungry, exhausted, and still dehydrated.
I sling the pack off at the campsite and sit down. And I thank the spirit of the North for blowing the storm away. The spirit of the East for bringing the sun. And Grandfather and Earth Mother for providing the elk to lead the way.
I put out the ground cloth, right on top of the snow. I'm too tired to dig it out. And pitch the tent. A tired mistake. I lay awake most of the night, cold as hell. The bag is still damp, and I'm essentially laying on ice. Not smart. I climb out of the bag and throw on the wool pants and an extra shirt, and crawl back in. Not smart, either. But as I listen to the snow cats on Crystal Mountain, I finally doze off. They sound louder. Please don't snow.
at Bumping Lake Trail
Monday, Day Five
By this time, I'm nearly four miles into the 8.5 I had hoped to cover for the day. Progress is slowing. And as the weather begins to further deteriorate, so do I. The snow depth is now up to my shins and every step is painstaking. It is difficult to tell what lies beneath each step and there is little room for error. One misstep ... a hidden branch, a loose rock you can't see. And the work is getting harder.
I push on another mile. But I've used up my reserves and I'm running on empty. I meet the intersection of Trail #380, which runs a third of a mile, to Two Lakes. The irony of a rare signpost, pointing the way. I move about twenty yards beyond, where the trail turns off to the left, and out of sight. When I reach the bend I discover the trail only continues to rise ever more steeply, up the mountain. And the snow continues to fall.
Despair begins to slowly creep in. Led in all the more easily by fatigue. And I bend over, hands on knees. I stare at my boots in the snow, wondering whether to laugh or cry. I do neither, as I suddenly become aware of a chill moving quickly over my body. I have no more time for despair. Minutes are critical in a situation such as this. I need to rest. And I need to get some warmth back into my body. I move a few feet more, beneath the cover of a large boulder surrounded by fir trees, and begin to unload the camp stove, the pan, and the hot chocolate mix. I fire up the stove. And as the water heats I take another look at the map. The nearest campsite is three miles away.
I make a quick inventory of the facts as I hurriedly pour down the hot chocolate. I've come about six miles on the day, but it's getting near dusk. Maybe two, two-and-a-half hours left. The snow is still coming down, and getting deeper. More work, and slower progress. And I'm damned tired. Even slower progress.
As I finish my warm drink, another thought enters my mind for the first time. Shit! If this snow continues, I will soon not be able to see the trail. Not so bad on the side of the mountain. It's easy to pick out there. But going through the forest, or across a large clearing. What if I lose the trail? Can I afford not to push on, fatigue be damned? But in a situation which has become dynamic, the facts change by the minute. And your options along with them. I am becoming aware that frostbite is contemplating my fingers. Worse, I can't feel my toes. I need to get out of these clothes and into my sleeping bag. NOW!
Leaving my pack for the moment, I trudge through the deep snow, back towards the trail leading to Two Lakes. I can barely make out which way the trail even goes. There's no sense in heading down to the lake. The snow is not going to be any less deep there. And why have to hike all the way back up, through likely even deeper snow, tomorrow? Fuck it! I'm in the middle of the wilderness. I can camp anywhere. I quickly glance up a short rise beside the trail and pick out a level area in the trees. I trudge up to it and find it's fairly free of snow, as well.
In minutes the tent is up and I am inside, hurriedly changing into dry clothes as the stove begins to heat up the interior. Another bullet dodged ... for the moment. Trouble is, there suddenly seem to be so many. And the stark realization of the seriousness of those "bullets" is slowly washing over me. It's not just one thing to deal with, anymore. There are a number of things going badly. All very serious, and equally as critical. If the snow continues to fall, my progress will slow ever more dramatically. Along with the even larger concern of losing the trail completely. I am still not near enough to civilization that I could just pick a direction and walk out of this. Add to that wet gear, danger of frostbite, dehydration. And even avalanche if the snow continues to build up on the mountainside. The sheer number of details demanding my consideration are pushing me to a mental fatigue, as well.
.
After making myself some dinner, I climb straight into my sleeping bag and invite sleep. But it is long in coming. My thoughts are busy going over and over all of the possibilities and options. Any room for error is now gone. I listen to the crystals of the falling snow blowing against the tent, and try not to imagine what conditions I will find in the morning. I should have already fallen into a deep sleep, from sheer physical exhaustion. But I find myself awake and thinking. Thoughts of many things. The foremost being the very real possibility that I may not make it out. There is no one to call. No one around for miles, in any direction. Likely, no one would even find me until the spring thaw. No one is going to help me. And whether I make it out, or not, is going to depend on me. And only me.
I can't help but wonder what thoughts go through another person's mind when confronted with that reality. Do we all think of the same things? Probably not. We surely don't all react in the same way. But I have to imagine that, whether we face it bravely, or break down and cry, we all must surely begin to take some kind of inventory of our lives. People, events, regrets. The "shoulda'", "coulda'", "woulda's". And then the promises to ourselves. "If I make it out of this ...".
I begin thinking first how it is going to affect people. Those I know and love. My roommates, Amanda and Gabe, will have to deal with all of the things I left behind. Damn, I left no instructions or anything, and they'll have to deal with going through it all. That'll be a hard thing to put them through. People I've known from Wolf Haven. From places I've worked and gotten to know people. Dad, my brother. Hard to say how they'll take the news. My friend, Paul. I imagine him as being really hurt by it. And really angry with me for doing such a stupid thing in the first place. A lot of people it will likely affect. But for my Mom, my sisters ... I think it would totally devastate them. Mom would probably never recover. I hadn't even told her I was going because I knew she would just worry the whole time.
I thought of my family. Of how I just up and left them all behind. I hadn't been there for any of them. Just prior to leaving on this trip, I learned that my Uncle Bob had taken a turn for worse with his cancer. I began to remember all of the good times we'd had at Bob and Ruth's house. And I felt guilty for being so selfish and taking this trip. Then I began to add up all of the selfish things I had done, and continued to do. And there were many. I needed to get back home. I should be back home. I need to see my uncle, and my family. I have to make it out of this.
In my curled up hand I held my "medicine bag". A small leather bag containing, in the Native American tradition, sacred relics from my life. "Big medicine." I had carried it with me the entire trip. But I was never without it. Now, I held it tight. And I began to pray to my Native American spirits. To Grandfather, Father, Heaven, and all that is above. To Grandmother, Earth Mother, and all that is below. And to the spirits of the West, North, East, and South. asking for their help. I thanked Creator for keeping me from harm through the ordeal, and helping me find my way. And I asked that he make me strong, and give me courage for tomorrow. I asked for special help from the spirit of the North, who brings the cleansing winds, and the spirit of the East, where the sun comes from, and who brings us wisdom. I asked for the winds to blow away the storm and give me a clear sky. And for the sun to take away the snows, so that I may find my way.
I also began to concentrate on the "medicine bag", and to think about the wolves, whose fur was contained in the bag and was a part of that medicine. And I thought of my time at Wolf Haven. And all of the wolves I had known there. It was then I began to cry. It was a process I had never dealt with until now. My love for all of those animals, and the pain of missing them. Whether gone or still living. And as I thought of each one, and the feelings in my heart, the tears poured through. I then spoke to them, and told them how I loved them. And thanked them for letting me care for them. It was all something I had never allowed myself to do, since leaving Wolf Haven. Finally, I asked for the wolf spirits to be with me. And to give me their strength, their wisdom, and their courage.
The wind had picked up, and the rain fly was flapping continuously against the tent. The sound of the snowflakes could still be heard. I could also hear a roaring sound, in the distance. It had to be the snow cats at Crystal Mountain. It seemed so near. And yet, so very far.
23 October, 2001
near Two Lakes
William O. Douglas Wilderness
Tuesday, Day Six
I awaken, having slept little, as the wind had picked up to a gale-like intensity throughout the night. Looking out the front of the tent I could see the snow had piled up to a depth of around four or five inches in front. Even more on the windward side. I crawled back into the bag and lay for a time, deciding what to do next. Finally, roused by nature, I dressed and made my way outside to relieve myself. There had, indeed, been a fair amount of snow. And the tracks I had made less than a day before were nearly gone. The heavy winds had really drifted the deep snow. They had also blown away several items I thought I had securely hung to dry overnight. My rain jacket was gone. Probably blown down the hillside. I made a limited search, but found nothing but white. I still had the poncho. And I would pray to feel a warm rain at this point.
The winds were now gone. And as I began my day, the sun was even making an appearance. I had my usual breakfast. Then began making ready everything inside the tent for packing up. Although the snow was now nearly up to my knees (even deeper where it had drifted), there was never any doubt that I must keep moving. Still a lot of distance to cover. And, even if the sun remained all day, this amount of snow wasn't going anywhere soon. This small window of fair weather actually made it all the more imperative that I get moving. It wasn't worth delaying, only to see another two inches fall.
I quickly dug out the tent with the little orange shovel I'd almost left at home, and was glad I didn't. I soon found the rain jacket, buried in snow. Evidently stopped, mid-flight, by the tent. In a short time I was ready to move on. The glare on the snow forced me to break out my sunglasses, for the first time. I made a mental note to add "snow blind" to my list of possibilities.
Everywhere I looked was white. And I soon found out the snow had become deep. I tried to pick my way through, looking for high spots to walk on. But it didn't seem to make much of a difference. It was going to be another challenging day. Before starting, I pulled the machete from the pack and found a large branch that had fallen. Whacking off a long, straight piece, I trimmed it up and headed back to the trail, staff in hand.
The first thirty yards gave me some indication of what kind of day it was going to be. My heart was already pounding and I had to stop. It was going to be a day of taking a step, sinking to the knee, kicking through with another step, sinking to the knee .... And, of course, the trail led up. Ever up.
The going was slow. Twenty yards here, rest. Forty yards there, rest. Sometimes only ten. Got to keep moving. Just keep moving. Breathe in, breathe out. Keep the oxygen pumping into those legs. Heart pounding. C'mon, three more steps ... to that tree. Make it as far as the tree. Rest. Gasping for air. Listening to my heart pounding in my ears. I shouted out, "This is fucking ridiculous!". Somehow, that made me feel better. But then, a new thought. What about avalanche? A lot of snow piling up on that hillside. Trees are already losing their snow in big, heavy drops. Might be best to keep my mouth shut. I was already coming across parts of the trail where snow from the uphill side had slid down. Ha! So much for calling out for help. You can laugh, or you can cry.
The going remained agonizingly slow. According to the map, the next campsite was still 2.6 miles away. But by mid-day, I'd probably covered half that distance. The trail just kept going up. Which began to puzzle me. I'd started the day at 5,600'. And the altitude should have been dropping, with the next camp at around 5,300'. With all of the snow, had I walked off of the trail? As doubt begins to creep in, I check the map and the compass, and convince myself I am heading in the right direction. And after a short distance, the trail begins to descend.
I begin to make better time. Although, the snow is still deep. And I still must stop and rest, even going downhill. It's during one of these stops, chest heaving, leaning heavily on the hiking staff, I realize I haven't been sweating. Working my ass off, but .... Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit! I'm dehydrated. I'm low on water, with no water source for at least three miles, and I'm dehydrated. I lean more heavily on the staff and look down at my legs, buried in the snow. And I begin to laugh. Nothing hysterical. Just a mild chuckle. What can you do? I shake my head, and with a big smile ... I move on. What else can you do?
The descent soon levels, and the forest thins out ... and the trail runs out. Actually, it doesn't run out. It's still there. I just can't see it. It has already happened before. Usually, I can take a moment, look at the lay of the land, and figure out where it is headed. Or where it should be. On occasion, I can simply stare and the difference in densities of the snow will actually reveal the trail as appearing whiter, snaking like a ribbon across the landscape. But it's not working this time. The snow, everywhere, is just too deep. And in open country now, I cannot use a clearing through the trees as any clue. Did I miss it, farther back? Or is that it, moving over the rise in front of me? Maybe that's it, curving around that evergreen. Appearing to be the most likely, I move towards it.
In just a few steps, I fall waste-deep into a snow bank. After struggling to pull myself out, I make a small circle and see nothing convincing. I have neither the time, nor the energy, to be wandering in this snow. So, I pull out the map and check my compass. Should be a couple of spur ridges and then abrupt swhitchbacks that bring me to a saddle, and Trail #958. I see ridges, but no trail. Knowing I should be heading northwest, I check the compass and move in that direction.
I haven't moved far before I'm up to my waist, again. This time I just sit and do another visual of the land around me. And I notice, not five paces away - elk tracks. I've noticed this particular elk has preceded me most of the day, staying strictly to the trail through the forest. But meandering off once the land opened up. So ... what are the odds? Does he know where the trail is? Maybe it was me that meandered off of the trail. Hell, it was likely elk who blazed much of the trail, anyway. Sounds good to me. (And please do not get the impression here that I am cool and collected. Losing the trail, at this point, is my worst fear. And while not panicked, I AM bloody well concerned.)
I follow the elk tracks. And while I can still not say whether I am on or off of the trail, the way is certainly easier traveling. Which, of course, makes sense. Energy at this time of year is precious for the elk. And they're not going to waste any. Something I am beginning to relate to. It's not long before the land begins to slope down. And as I reach it's edge, I find the trail. Not unmistakable, but it's there. Sure enough, I begin to cover abrupt swhitchbacks that lead me to a saddle. And with the light beginning to fade, I come upon the well-marked intersection of Trail #958. I'm hungry, exhausted, and still dehydrated.
I sling the pack off at the campsite and sit down. And I thank the spirit of the North for blowing the storm away. The spirit of the East for bringing the sun. And Grandfather and Earth Mother for providing the elk to lead the way.
I put out the ground cloth, right on top of the snow. I'm too tired to dig it out. And pitch the tent. A tired mistake. I lay awake most of the night, cold as hell. The bag is still damp, and I'm essentially laying on ice. Not smart. I climb out of the bag and throw on the wool pants and an extra shirt, and crawl back in. Not smart, either. But as I listen to the snow cats on Crystal Mountain, I finally doze off. They sound louder. Please don't snow.
IN THE JOURNEY, Part Two
21 October, 2001
Near Frying Pan Mountain
Sunday, Day Four
I wake in the morning to snow. Nothing major, as yet. But it's still coming down. And the flakes are getting bigger. The temperature is struggling to climb back up, as well. I throw on the wool pants and heavy overshirt, and have my usual breakfast of oatmeal and hot chocolate. Damn! I'm hoping like hell this doesn't continue. But I look at the brighter side. At least it's not wet. The temperature is beginning to freeze the excess moisture and the snow is beginning to accumulate. As long as I can remain fairly dry, that's all I want.
I briefly consider staying put for a day. Briefly. The tent is in the open. And the snow is slowly beginning to inch it's way up the sides. I remind myself I've got to keep moving. The next camping area is only 1.1 miles away, all downhill. But from there, it's nothing but up. I've already begun to plot my distance from the nearest civilization, just in case. I am just past halfway to Crystal Mountain. But there is nothing else, in any direction, for miles. Still, worst case scenario, there's no need to push myself. I can still take the extra time, if needed, to allow for my body's adjustments.
With that in mind, I look over the map to find the next camping area. Only a mile away, I decide to leave my campsite for a quick day hike to have a look-see before breaking camp. The trail takes me down, abruptly, to around 4,100 feet. I can almost feel the air around me getting warmer. There's still a white glaze about, covering nearly everything. But it's begun to get patchy in areas. I come upon another large creek, the headwaters of the Bumping River. Again, two large trees are the only way across a rather sizeable span. I gingerly make my way across. The snow atop the log is wet and slippery. And a broken arm or leg from a fall is not what I need this far from everywhere.
Once across, I find a number of small campsites, and an intersection with Bumping Lake Trail #971. For once, just like the map said. Noting that it looks livable, and gets me off of the mountain, I decide to move my base of operations. Recrossing the creek, I utilize a number of large boulders and rocks. I will not be able to do the same with a full backpack when I return.
Heading back up the mountain begins to drain some of the energy I'd won with a good night's sleep. And I decide this one-mile march for the day will suffice before what lies ahead. No hurry. Get a little more rest. Enjoy some of the vast beauty surrounding me.
Along the way back to camp I begin to hear noises. Sudden sounds. Solid thuds. Rustling brush. And again I become aware of the fact I have left myself unprotected. I do carry the pepper spray. But that machete back in the tent would have added some small comfort. With each unusual noise, I stop. Trying to remain wilderness silent, and opening my ears to any sound, I watch the trail behind me. Nothing. I begin to realize it is likely just the wet snow hurtling through the branches, on its way down. And the thud as it hits the ground. Still, each time I stop and check.
During one of these halts, I see in the trees, not thirty yards away, two female moose. Side-by-side, and staring at me. I am enthralled. As this is my first time to see them in the wild, I am astonished at how huge the animals are. I make no sudden moves, not wishing to startle them. And then it begins to dawn on me. If there are two females - where is the male? Looking slowly around me, I can see nothing. And as I look back to the females, they are gone in an instant. Darting through the trees. I decide to move on - quickly.
In a short time I am packed up and heading back down the mountain, leaving nothing but a large rectangle in the snow. I encounter nothing on the way back to the creek. Upon reaching it, I move along its bank, just down from the "tree-bridge", and unload my pack against a fir tree. I will still have to cross the log. But I will do it in two stages. Emptying the pack of all of the gear, except that required to set up the tent, I put it on my back and make my way to the logs. I move across, one foot at a time, in as straight a line as possible. Testing the snow beneath each step, before taking the next. No hurry.
Safely across I set up the tent on fairly level, heavily used ground, beneath three large fir trees. Not overly dry, but as dry as I was going to find. I cross the logs twice more. Once to carry back the empty pack. And once more, after I've loaded it with what remained, to return to the tent. Most of the ground is still pretty sloppy. But the snow has found it's way down the mountain, as well. And is beginning to fall.
The usual routine followed. Some dinner. Hanging the food bag high up. Along with some wet articles. And using the camp stove to dry some wet socks and my gloves. Then crawling into the bag, and lighting a pipe as I survey the map. I was glad to have brought the pipe. It has turned out to be one of my chief pleasures. I had also brought nearly half a pack of smokes. But the daily aerobics the trail has required has kept them in the pack. Back to the map, I reinforce what I had earlier determined. The next stretch of trail is going to be grueling. A lot of long switchbacks, up the mountain. Climbing from 4,100' to 5,100' in a little less than three miles. Followed by a 500' rise over the next mile and a half. It will be a chore. Pure and simple.
Gear stowed, I move deep into my bag for the night. I have just begun to doze when I hear voices. I am instantly awake, wondering if I was just dreaming. But again I hear them, and pretty close, too. Maybe three. Two males and a female, as I can make out. I sit up and listen. It's very dark out, and I think to call out to them. But surely they had seen my tent. If they needed help, wouldn't I have heard them call? I shuffle around, find my headlamp, and flick it on so they can see I am here. But I hear not another sound. Apparently they moved on quickly.
It is still very cold as I move back down into the bag, which seems to be getting damper each day. And it is one discomfort which is difficult to ignore. But, eventually, I reach a level of comfort and begin to think of people. Women, friends, family. Before drifting away. I can hear the wind picking up. And the familiar sound of crystals against the tent.
22 October, 2001
at Bumping Lake Trail #971
Monday, Day Five
It's day five, and I'm making miserable progress. A few calculations and I realize I'm averaging four miles a day. Let's see ... that would mean 99 miles in ... about 25 days. The most demanding part of the trail, and I am needing to move faster. I note a camping area at 2.6 miles away. And another around six miles beyond that. Well, 2.6 won't do. Looks like around a 9-mile hike, today.
I woke this morning to find the same conditions as on the mountain, the previous day. Temperatures plummeting, and the once soggy, wet trail, now slowly being blanketed by the falling snow. Although the flakes are still small, with no breeze, it feels cold and wet. A growing layer of snow, with a nice wetness waiting at the bottom of each step. I have yet to have any problems with frostbite. But it could be trouble if it stays between freeze and thaw.
Packed up, I begin what I figure to be a long day, my legs and back complaining. Luckily, I am soon warmed up and into my stride. The first mile or so is already a small climb. And I begin to worry, as I move on, just how steep is this climb going to be? As I am rounding another switchback, I encounter my first human contact in days. Five people - all on horseback - with a dog out front.
I stop. Partly to rest, partly to let them pass. And call out, "Hello". As the man on the lead horse approaches, his dog comes to my side, gives me a sniff, and quickly moves on. The man returns my greeting and moves his horse to my side, the others following in a line behind. He tells me they are lost, and looking for the way to White Pass Horse Camp. Seems the unmarked trails have given them problems, too. So ... the mystery equestrians I have been cursing are now become real. These must be the voices I had heard pass the night before. I had guessed three. Turns out it was two men and three women.
The lead man didn't seem all that put out by it all, though he explained they had been forced to spend the night on the mountain. I told him I had started my hike at White Pass. I told them it was about fourteen miles, and they should make it by sunset. I pointed the way and they were off. Each rider passed me by with a smile. The last woman adding a "God bless you". They were around the switchback and out of sight before I'd thought to warn them of the log bridges. But then, they had likely come that way and crossed it once before. And if not, it's not like they had any other options. My telling of it would not have changed anything.
I returned my attention to the trail which was heading up. Ever up. I pulled out the map for a quick review and read again, "Here at the start of a long tour, high along the Cascade backbone, you can, in good weather, look forward to miles of expansive, glorious views. In bad weather, you'll find yourself shrouded in clouds, exposed to the brunt of wet, westerly storms." And that particular stretch of the trail was still a good two miles away.
For the moment, I was still in fairly dense tree cover. I was, to be sure, shrouded in something. Though I couldn't make out if it was clouds or fog. And it was dreary, cold and wet. A light snow was coming down, but without much accumulation. The trail was steep and rough. Made all the worse by the passage of the riders. And it was becoming a chore. Still carrying quite a lot of weight, I made frequent stops, remaining sensitive to the pounding in my chest. Stopping just long enough for the beats-per-minute to subside, and then beginning again.
It is interesting how, during times of duress, you fall into little habits, or techniques, for conserving energy. I had already fallen into the habit of trudging up a steep incline and never actually sitting down to rest until I had come upon some sizeable, felled tree, next to the trail. Luckily, there were plenty to be found along the way. And many I would even push past, trying to go as far as I could before stopping for a rest. But when I would, at last, reach my limit, I would look for one of these logs. And this is where technique entered the picture. I had been trying to figure a way to sit down without the difficulty, then, of getting back up. The first few times that I'd attempted this I had almost thrown myself off of the trail with the shifting weight of the pack. But soon I discovered that if I straddled a sizeable log and set down, with both the pack's weight and my own equally supported, it was less hazardous when trying to get back on my feet. Much easier to get up from the log than from the ground. Just lean forward and stand up. Doesn't sound like a big deal, I know. But when you're carrying half your own weight on your back, everything's a big deal.
Within a short while I was hiking above the treeline, and totally in the open. And "exposed to the brunt of the wet, westerly storms". That passage couldn't have been more accurate. First thing, being out of the treeline, the snow had begun to accumulate nicely on the trail. Every step went in to above my boot-tops. Second, I was now exposed to a breeze that was picking up in intensity. And, of course ... it was snowing. Flakes about the size of a dime were piling up on the already fallen snow. The temperature had dropped to near freezing. And, while I wasn't cold, I was instead in danger of possibly being too warm.
As stated, the climb was a chore. I was working hard, and sweating, as a result. That was fine for keeping my muscles working. But, as the stops necessarily became more frequent, the chilly breeze began working with the perspiration to steal my body heat. Sure, I had the thermals, which wicked away the moisture, as advertised. But, once they had become saturated with sweat, there was little wicking going on. The rain jacket, to keep the wet out, also kept the wet in. That was the danger in a mountain trek. It was difficult to plan your clothing to suit the weather you might encounter. You are often forced into more costume changes than a Broadway show. And by the time you think to make a change, it is already too late. I just had to keep moving, as much as possible.
The snow continued to deepen, the trail to steepen. And the pack felt as though it were growing heavier. The trail seemed to rise forever. At every bend in the switchback, my disappointment at seeing it continue, up and up, would make me pause, hands on knees. Building up the breath for the next stretch. Building up the resolve. And still the snow fell.
Near Frying Pan Mountain
Sunday, Day Four
I wake in the morning to snow. Nothing major, as yet. But it's still coming down. And the flakes are getting bigger. The temperature is struggling to climb back up, as well. I throw on the wool pants and heavy overshirt, and have my usual breakfast of oatmeal and hot chocolate. Damn! I'm hoping like hell this doesn't continue. But I look at the brighter side. At least it's not wet. The temperature is beginning to freeze the excess moisture and the snow is beginning to accumulate. As long as I can remain fairly dry, that's all I want.
I briefly consider staying put for a day. Briefly. The tent is in the open. And the snow is slowly beginning to inch it's way up the sides. I remind myself I've got to keep moving. The next camping area is only 1.1 miles away, all downhill. But from there, it's nothing but up. I've already begun to plot my distance from the nearest civilization, just in case. I am just past halfway to Crystal Mountain. But there is nothing else, in any direction, for miles. Still, worst case scenario, there's no need to push myself. I can still take the extra time, if needed, to allow for my body's adjustments.
With that in mind, I look over the map to find the next camping area. Only a mile away, I decide to leave my campsite for a quick day hike to have a look-see before breaking camp. The trail takes me down, abruptly, to around 4,100 feet. I can almost feel the air around me getting warmer. There's still a white glaze about, covering nearly everything. But it's begun to get patchy in areas. I come upon another large creek, the headwaters of the Bumping River. Again, two large trees are the only way across a rather sizeable span. I gingerly make my way across. The snow atop the log is wet and slippery. And a broken arm or leg from a fall is not what I need this far from everywhere.
Once across, I find a number of small campsites, and an intersection with Bumping Lake Trail #971. For once, just like the map said. Noting that it looks livable, and gets me off of the mountain, I decide to move my base of operations. Recrossing the creek, I utilize a number of large boulders and rocks. I will not be able to do the same with a full backpack when I return.
Heading back up the mountain begins to drain some of the energy I'd won with a good night's sleep. And I decide this one-mile march for the day will suffice before what lies ahead. No hurry. Get a little more rest. Enjoy some of the vast beauty surrounding me.
Along the way back to camp I begin to hear noises. Sudden sounds. Solid thuds. Rustling brush. And again I become aware of the fact I have left myself unprotected. I do carry the pepper spray. But that machete back in the tent would have added some small comfort. With each unusual noise, I stop. Trying to remain wilderness silent, and opening my ears to any sound, I watch the trail behind me. Nothing. I begin to realize it is likely just the wet snow hurtling through the branches, on its way down. And the thud as it hits the ground. Still, each time I stop and check.
During one of these halts, I see in the trees, not thirty yards away, two female moose. Side-by-side, and staring at me. I am enthralled. As this is my first time to see them in the wild, I am astonished at how huge the animals are. I make no sudden moves, not wishing to startle them. And then it begins to dawn on me. If there are two females - where is the male? Looking slowly around me, I can see nothing. And as I look back to the females, they are gone in an instant. Darting through the trees. I decide to move on - quickly.
In a short time I am packed up and heading back down the mountain, leaving nothing but a large rectangle in the snow. I encounter nothing on the way back to the creek. Upon reaching it, I move along its bank, just down from the "tree-bridge", and unload my pack against a fir tree. I will still have to cross the log. But I will do it in two stages. Emptying the pack of all of the gear, except that required to set up the tent, I put it on my back and make my way to the logs. I move across, one foot at a time, in as straight a line as possible. Testing the snow beneath each step, before taking the next. No hurry.
Safely across I set up the tent on fairly level, heavily used ground, beneath three large fir trees. Not overly dry, but as dry as I was going to find. I cross the logs twice more. Once to carry back the empty pack. And once more, after I've loaded it with what remained, to return to the tent. Most of the ground is still pretty sloppy. But the snow has found it's way down the mountain, as well. And is beginning to fall.
The usual routine followed. Some dinner. Hanging the food bag high up. Along with some wet articles. And using the camp stove to dry some wet socks and my gloves. Then crawling into the bag, and lighting a pipe as I survey the map. I was glad to have brought the pipe. It has turned out to be one of my chief pleasures. I had also brought nearly half a pack of smokes. But the daily aerobics the trail has required has kept them in the pack. Back to the map, I reinforce what I had earlier determined. The next stretch of trail is going to be grueling. A lot of long switchbacks, up the mountain. Climbing from 4,100' to 5,100' in a little less than three miles. Followed by a 500' rise over the next mile and a half. It will be a chore. Pure and simple.
Gear stowed, I move deep into my bag for the night. I have just begun to doze when I hear voices. I am instantly awake, wondering if I was just dreaming. But again I hear them, and pretty close, too. Maybe three. Two males and a female, as I can make out. I sit up and listen. It's very dark out, and I think to call out to them. But surely they had seen my tent. If they needed help, wouldn't I have heard them call? I shuffle around, find my headlamp, and flick it on so they can see I am here. But I hear not another sound. Apparently they moved on quickly.
It is still very cold as I move back down into the bag, which seems to be getting damper each day. And it is one discomfort which is difficult to ignore. But, eventually, I reach a level of comfort and begin to think of people. Women, friends, family. Before drifting away. I can hear the wind picking up. And the familiar sound of crystals against the tent.
22 October, 2001
at Bumping Lake Trail #971
Monday, Day Five
It's day five, and I'm making miserable progress. A few calculations and I realize I'm averaging four miles a day. Let's see ... that would mean 99 miles in ... about 25 days. The most demanding part of the trail, and I am needing to move faster. I note a camping area at 2.6 miles away. And another around six miles beyond that. Well, 2.6 won't do. Looks like around a 9-mile hike, today.
I woke this morning to find the same conditions as on the mountain, the previous day. Temperatures plummeting, and the once soggy, wet trail, now slowly being blanketed by the falling snow. Although the flakes are still small, with no breeze, it feels cold and wet. A growing layer of snow, with a nice wetness waiting at the bottom of each step. I have yet to have any problems with frostbite. But it could be trouble if it stays between freeze and thaw.
Packed up, I begin what I figure to be a long day, my legs and back complaining. Luckily, I am soon warmed up and into my stride. The first mile or so is already a small climb. And I begin to worry, as I move on, just how steep is this climb going to be? As I am rounding another switchback, I encounter my first human contact in days. Five people - all on horseback - with a dog out front.
I stop. Partly to rest, partly to let them pass. And call out, "Hello". As the man on the lead horse approaches, his dog comes to my side, gives me a sniff, and quickly moves on. The man returns my greeting and moves his horse to my side, the others following in a line behind. He tells me they are lost, and looking for the way to White Pass Horse Camp. Seems the unmarked trails have given them problems, too. So ... the mystery equestrians I have been cursing are now become real. These must be the voices I had heard pass the night before. I had guessed three. Turns out it was two men and three women.
The lead man didn't seem all that put out by it all, though he explained they had been forced to spend the night on the mountain. I told him I had started my hike at White Pass. I told them it was about fourteen miles, and they should make it by sunset. I pointed the way and they were off. Each rider passed me by with a smile. The last woman adding a "God bless you". They were around the switchback and out of sight before I'd thought to warn them of the log bridges. But then, they had likely come that way and crossed it once before. And if not, it's not like they had any other options. My telling of it would not have changed anything.
I returned my attention to the trail which was heading up. Ever up. I pulled out the map for a quick review and read again, "Here at the start of a long tour, high along the Cascade backbone, you can, in good weather, look forward to miles of expansive, glorious views. In bad weather, you'll find yourself shrouded in clouds, exposed to the brunt of wet, westerly storms." And that particular stretch of the trail was still a good two miles away.
For the moment, I was still in fairly dense tree cover. I was, to be sure, shrouded in something. Though I couldn't make out if it was clouds or fog. And it was dreary, cold and wet. A light snow was coming down, but without much accumulation. The trail was steep and rough. Made all the worse by the passage of the riders. And it was becoming a chore. Still carrying quite a lot of weight, I made frequent stops, remaining sensitive to the pounding in my chest. Stopping just long enough for the beats-per-minute to subside, and then beginning again.
It is interesting how, during times of duress, you fall into little habits, or techniques, for conserving energy. I had already fallen into the habit of trudging up a steep incline and never actually sitting down to rest until I had come upon some sizeable, felled tree, next to the trail. Luckily, there were plenty to be found along the way. And many I would even push past, trying to go as far as I could before stopping for a rest. But when I would, at last, reach my limit, I would look for one of these logs. And this is where technique entered the picture. I had been trying to figure a way to sit down without the difficulty, then, of getting back up. The first few times that I'd attempted this I had almost thrown myself off of the trail with the shifting weight of the pack. But soon I discovered that if I straddled a sizeable log and set down, with both the pack's weight and my own equally supported, it was less hazardous when trying to get back on my feet. Much easier to get up from the log than from the ground. Just lean forward and stand up. Doesn't sound like a big deal, I know. But when you're carrying half your own weight on your back, everything's a big deal.
Within a short while I was hiking above the treeline, and totally in the open. And "exposed to the brunt of the wet, westerly storms". That passage couldn't have been more accurate. First thing, being out of the treeline, the snow had begun to accumulate nicely on the trail. Every step went in to above my boot-tops. Second, I was now exposed to a breeze that was picking up in intensity. And, of course ... it was snowing. Flakes about the size of a dime were piling up on the already fallen snow. The temperature had dropped to near freezing. And, while I wasn't cold, I was instead in danger of possibly being too warm.
As stated, the climb was a chore. I was working hard, and sweating, as a result. That was fine for keeping my muscles working. But, as the stops necessarily became more frequent, the chilly breeze began working with the perspiration to steal my body heat. Sure, I had the thermals, which wicked away the moisture, as advertised. But, once they had become saturated with sweat, there was little wicking going on. The rain jacket, to keep the wet out, also kept the wet in. That was the danger in a mountain trek. It was difficult to plan your clothing to suit the weather you might encounter. You are often forced into more costume changes than a Broadway show. And by the time you think to make a change, it is already too late. I just had to keep moving, as much as possible.
The snow continued to deepen, the trail to steepen. And the pack felt as though it were growing heavier. The trail seemed to rise forever. At every bend in the switchback, my disappointment at seeing it continue, up and up, would make me pause, hands on knees. Building up the breath for the next stretch. Building up the resolve. And still the snow fell.
IN THE JOURNEY, Part One
18 October, 2001
Day 1
Got a pretty early start. Gabe and I were on our way before 10 am. The backpack weighs a ton. Probably 60-65 pounds, in total. But I had eliminated everything I thought I could do without for a 99-mile hike on the Pacific Crest Trail. Things like binoculars, unnecessary clothing, etc., I had unloaded. Taking only hiking boots, and leaving sneakers. Packing five pairs of socks, just in case some got wet. And because it was going to be 99 miles, for chrissakes! Could have left more of the First Aid Kit, but decided to bring as much as possible. Enough food for a planned 12 days-plus, breakfast and dinner. Two water bottles (there would be some dry stretches along the route), and a water purifier. Rain suit and poncho - suit for me, poncho to cover the backpack in a downpour. Camp stove. Two fuel bottles, full. One pan, with lid, and one plastic cup. Small plastic shovel. Tent. Tarp, for ground cloth or shelter. LED headlamp.Two pair of thermal wear, tops and bottoms. A pair of wool pants (army issue, and indispensable). One very warm overshirt. NO COTTON. My khafiya (a middle-eastern scarf), and a wool beret. One hunting knife, pepper spray, and a Colombian machete. Fifty feet of nylon braided cord, and fifteen feet of parachute cord. Other assorted sundries (TP, toothpaste, sunglasses, compass, etc.). And maps, along with descriptions of the entire route.
All-in-all, a helluva' lot to be carrying for a 130 pound man. But the weather in these parts is just too unpredictable. And it's best to consider worst-case scenarios when deciding what to take, and what to leave. I figured I was prepared for anything but a heavy snowfall. I had made calls to the Ranger station in the area. They had assured me there had been little snow. And whatever had fallen had quickly melted away within a day. So, I figured I was good to go.
I did most of the driving on Highway 12, heading for Leech Lake. The White Pass ski area, and the trailhead where my trek would begin. Gabe works two jobs, and by Thursday is usually worn out. It was a 3-hour drive. So it's near 1:30 by the time we pull into the parking lot at Leech Lake. The air is cool. But the sky is clear and bright. A beautiful fall day.
As we drive through the campground area we have to search for the trailhead. Oddly, it is not well marked. We notice a huge path, heading into the trees from the campground, and figure that must be the place. We get out of the car and I unload the backpack from the back seat. Gabe has to help me get it on my back. Then we stand, looking sheepishly at each other. He's been sleeping, and is squinting into the sunlight. After a few comments about how great it's going to be, it's "see ya' in a couple of weeks", and I'm off. As I head into the trees, I imagine a future in which he relates, "Yep. That was the last time I saw him." But I hear the car pulling away before I've even reached the treeline. It was a long drive back.
I stop before I even get started, lighting my pipe, and pulling out the map. The trail, it appears, heads due northwest. The first camping area described is about 2 1/2 miles in. I'll stop there and take stock, and prepare for a long day tomorrow. I stow the map and pipe, and begin my journey.
Very quickly I begin to run across unmarked trails, intersections, and dead ends. Three hours later I find myself heading east, rather than northwest. And I am soon near a highway, and getting frustrated. The maps show none of the trails I've been on. I move to higher ground, to get my bearings, and discover I am only half a mile from where I started. My indicator is the visible ski lift running up the side of the mountain at White Pass. Rather than trying to retrace my steps via the convoluted trails, I take the path cleared by power lines running over and through the mountains, and follow them back to the campground.
Crossing the eastern edge of the camping area, I find an area set up for the equestrians who would be using the Pacific Crest Trail. And lo and behold, I find the trailhead. The real one. By this time it's nearing dusk, and I decide to just camp at the lake for the night. Not ten yards from where I pulled the backpack out of the car, nearly five hours before.
19 October, 2001
White Pass
Friday, Day 2
The morning is chilly and overcast with a light drizzle. Within a couple of hours after sunrise, I am back on the trail. The right one, this time. Immediately, it begins to climb the side of a mountain. At an altitude of 5,000-plus feet the air is still thin for my lungs. And I am soon huffing and puffing, and making frequent stops. As I catch my breath I can't help but notice the many "nuggets" left on the trail by some hoofed hikers. I also notice the profusion of orange mushrooms, pushing their way up through some of the larger piles. And I wish I were farther along in my mycological studies. Just for the hell of it, I pinch them to see if they turn blue.
Still running into problems of unmarked trails. Trails that, according to the map, shouldn't be there. I get sidetracked a couple of times. Although only for short distances before the map and compass give them away. The weather takes a turn, as well. And by the time I reach the first campground, I'm beat. I'm wet. I'm hungry. I set up camp. Only 2.5 miles into 99.
The night in the tent is cold and it's turning wet outside. From drizzle, to rain, to sleet - and finally, to snow. The wind is beginning to gust.
20 October, 2001
Deer Lake
Saturday, Day 3
I wake in the morning to a tent covered in a sheet of ice. It had turned cold overnight. The day is damp and chilly, with a heavy fog obscuring my surroundings. After a quick breakfast of oatmeal and hot chocolate, I hang a few articles to dry in the breeze that has sprung up. There is no precipitation in the wind, and I take the opportunity to get the wet out of some things while I take a look around.
Not far from the tent I find some scat - fresh, by appearance - and can make out some fur within it. With a little more scouting about I find fresh tracks. A cat! And by the size of the prints, not a small one. Of all of the things I had considered as known dangers before starting this trip, a cougar was at the top of the list. But it surprised me to find evidence of one this early into my trek. I suddenly became aware of the fact that I was unarmed. Quickly making my way back to the tent, I located the pepper spray, placing it into my pocket. And made sure the machete was handy.
Although I kept my eyes open, I turned my attention to packing up to move on. It was foremost in my mind that I had traveled less than three miles in two days. And that I needed to make up some lost time. I'd already used up two days of food that could have been my cushion for the end of the trip. Not a crisis. I was well aware that, in a pinch, I could resupply at the Crystal Mountain Ski Resort, around thirty miles in. But it was still enough to cause concern.
Checking the maps, I thought I should try and cover 7-10 miles for the day. Most of the way was fairly level, passing numerous lakes and camping areas for backpackers. Mostly marshland and soggy meadows.
With that in mind, I marched with purpose, not taking in much scenery. At times walking backwards for short stretches, aware there could be a cat whose curiosity might have him on my trail.
The going was much more difficult than I had anticipated. A direct result of the many horses that had clopped across the soggy ground. They had, in fact, done so much damage that I began to swear at the riders who had come before me.
I had already become fully aware of the weight of my backpack. The skin across my shoulders had become tender and raw. And my ankle and knee joints were taking a pounding. But, just as my lungs would soon acclimate to the thinner air, I anticipated that my legs, too, would soon become stronger. My shoulders would simply be something I would have to get used to.
By dusk I had covered more than ten miles. Reaching Frying Pan Mountain, and a campsite near a sizeable creek. My guide had made mention of a bridge across the creek. That bridge turned out to be no more than two felled trees that spanned the distance. I was finding that many of the descriptions of the trail were "hit-and-miss". For instance, of five intersecting trails I had encountered during the day, I was only able to identify two. Many of the lakes on the map seemed to match the map. But the distances were inconsistent, and often incorrect. Something I needed to keep in mind when searching for a campsite in the dwindling hours of daylight.
The weather had been variable. At mid-day, the sun was peeking through, and everything was melting and turning sloshy. I had ascended as high as 5,700', and made my way back down to around 4,600'. Which is where I made camp for the night.
I'd begun to notice the oversight of not having a watch. Although I had checked the sunrise/sunset tables before leaving (and knew I had about ten hours of light each day), it was an inconvenience not to know what time of day it was. Not so bad when you can see the sun. A little tougher when overcast. Or when you are in deep forest. And it would have helped to know when the end of the day was near. Whether to pitch camp where you stand. Or try and make it that last 1.6 miles to the next camping area. In better weather it would have been easy to hike until dusk and just set up a tent wherever you stop. But, with the weather turning soggy, there was a need to be more discriminating in campsite selection. I couldn't just plop down in the midst of a squishy marsh. Even the camp area I had chosen for this night wasn't ideal. I had pitched the tent in the open, away from the trees, which were dropping the moisture they had accumulated the last two days.
After making sure all of my gear was stowed, I got comfy and made some dinner. Nothing terribly hardy. An instant rice-and-beans soup, with half a bagel. And some hot apple cider mix. The bagels I had dehydrated, so as to avoid any molding over the two weeks. They were hard, but welcome.
Following dinner, I threw on boots and a rain jacket (it had begun raining, again). And went outside to refill the water bottles, and to hang my foodstuffs. High up, from a limb.
Back in the tent I made my nightly inventory. Checking to make sure clothes were staying dry. Checking fuel levels, and the stove. And thoroughly going over the map to see what was in store for the morrow. That done, I settled into the bag. I'd stripped down to the thermals and socks. (Which I later discovered kept me from heating up the inside of the bag.) It was turning very cold. I lay there most of the night, listening to the drops of moisture against the tent. First heavy, then faint. And hoped for better weather. Wet wasn't entirely a bad thing. But throw in the cold, and wet can become dangerous. I notice the top of my bag is still moist from my breathing, and hunker down a little further. There's a lot of tossing and turning before I finally sleep. With the rain outside beginning to sound like crystals.
Day 1
Got a pretty early start. Gabe and I were on our way before 10 am. The backpack weighs a ton. Probably 60-65 pounds, in total. But I had eliminated everything I thought I could do without for a 99-mile hike on the Pacific Crest Trail. Things like binoculars, unnecessary clothing, etc., I had unloaded. Taking only hiking boots, and leaving sneakers. Packing five pairs of socks, just in case some got wet. And because it was going to be 99 miles, for chrissakes! Could have left more of the First Aid Kit, but decided to bring as much as possible. Enough food for a planned 12 days-plus, breakfast and dinner. Two water bottles (there would be some dry stretches along the route), and a water purifier. Rain suit and poncho - suit for me, poncho to cover the backpack in a downpour. Camp stove. Two fuel bottles, full. One pan, with lid, and one plastic cup. Small plastic shovel. Tent. Tarp, for ground cloth or shelter. LED headlamp.Two pair of thermal wear, tops and bottoms. A pair of wool pants (army issue, and indispensable). One very warm overshirt. NO COTTON. My khafiya (a middle-eastern scarf), and a wool beret. One hunting knife, pepper spray, and a Colombian machete. Fifty feet of nylon braided cord, and fifteen feet of parachute cord. Other assorted sundries (TP, toothpaste, sunglasses, compass, etc.). And maps, along with descriptions of the entire route.
All-in-all, a helluva' lot to be carrying for a 130 pound man. But the weather in these parts is just too unpredictable. And it's best to consider worst-case scenarios when deciding what to take, and what to leave. I figured I was prepared for anything but a heavy snowfall. I had made calls to the Ranger station in the area. They had assured me there had been little snow. And whatever had fallen had quickly melted away within a day. So, I figured I was good to go.
I did most of the driving on Highway 12, heading for Leech Lake. The White Pass ski area, and the trailhead where my trek would begin. Gabe works two jobs, and by Thursday is usually worn out. It was a 3-hour drive. So it's near 1:30 by the time we pull into the parking lot at Leech Lake. The air is cool. But the sky is clear and bright. A beautiful fall day.
As we drive through the campground area we have to search for the trailhead. Oddly, it is not well marked. We notice a huge path, heading into the trees from the campground, and figure that must be the place. We get out of the car and I unload the backpack from the back seat. Gabe has to help me get it on my back. Then we stand, looking sheepishly at each other. He's been sleeping, and is squinting into the sunlight. After a few comments about how great it's going to be, it's "see ya' in a couple of weeks", and I'm off. As I head into the trees, I imagine a future in which he relates, "Yep. That was the last time I saw him." But I hear the car pulling away before I've even reached the treeline. It was a long drive back.
I stop before I even get started, lighting my pipe, and pulling out the map. The trail, it appears, heads due northwest. The first camping area described is about 2 1/2 miles in. I'll stop there and take stock, and prepare for a long day tomorrow. I stow the map and pipe, and begin my journey.
Very quickly I begin to run across unmarked trails, intersections, and dead ends. Three hours later I find myself heading east, rather than northwest. And I am soon near a highway, and getting frustrated. The maps show none of the trails I've been on. I move to higher ground, to get my bearings, and discover I am only half a mile from where I started. My indicator is the visible ski lift running up the side of the mountain at White Pass. Rather than trying to retrace my steps via the convoluted trails, I take the path cleared by power lines running over and through the mountains, and follow them back to the campground.
Crossing the eastern edge of the camping area, I find an area set up for the equestrians who would be using the Pacific Crest Trail. And lo and behold, I find the trailhead. The real one. By this time it's nearing dusk, and I decide to just camp at the lake for the night. Not ten yards from where I pulled the backpack out of the car, nearly five hours before.
19 October, 2001
White Pass
Friday, Day 2
The morning is chilly and overcast with a light drizzle. Within a couple of hours after sunrise, I am back on the trail. The right one, this time. Immediately, it begins to climb the side of a mountain. At an altitude of 5,000-plus feet the air is still thin for my lungs. And I am soon huffing and puffing, and making frequent stops. As I catch my breath I can't help but notice the many "nuggets" left on the trail by some hoofed hikers. I also notice the profusion of orange mushrooms, pushing their way up through some of the larger piles. And I wish I were farther along in my mycological studies. Just for the hell of it, I pinch them to see if they turn blue.
Still running into problems of unmarked trails. Trails that, according to the map, shouldn't be there. I get sidetracked a couple of times. Although only for short distances before the map and compass give them away. The weather takes a turn, as well. And by the time I reach the first campground, I'm beat. I'm wet. I'm hungry. I set up camp. Only 2.5 miles into 99.
The night in the tent is cold and it's turning wet outside. From drizzle, to rain, to sleet - and finally, to snow. The wind is beginning to gust.
20 October, 2001
Deer Lake
Saturday, Day 3
I wake in the morning to a tent covered in a sheet of ice. It had turned cold overnight. The day is damp and chilly, with a heavy fog obscuring my surroundings. After a quick breakfast of oatmeal and hot chocolate, I hang a few articles to dry in the breeze that has sprung up. There is no precipitation in the wind, and I take the opportunity to get the wet out of some things while I take a look around.
Not far from the tent I find some scat - fresh, by appearance - and can make out some fur within it. With a little more scouting about I find fresh tracks. A cat! And by the size of the prints, not a small one. Of all of the things I had considered as known dangers before starting this trip, a cougar was at the top of the list. But it surprised me to find evidence of one this early into my trek. I suddenly became aware of the fact that I was unarmed. Quickly making my way back to the tent, I located the pepper spray, placing it into my pocket. And made sure the machete was handy.
Although I kept my eyes open, I turned my attention to packing up to move on. It was foremost in my mind that I had traveled less than three miles in two days. And that I needed to make up some lost time. I'd already used up two days of food that could have been my cushion for the end of the trip. Not a crisis. I was well aware that, in a pinch, I could resupply at the Crystal Mountain Ski Resort, around thirty miles in. But it was still enough to cause concern.
Checking the maps, I thought I should try and cover 7-10 miles for the day. Most of the way was fairly level, passing numerous lakes and camping areas for backpackers. Mostly marshland and soggy meadows.
With that in mind, I marched with purpose, not taking in much scenery. At times walking backwards for short stretches, aware there could be a cat whose curiosity might have him on my trail.
The going was much more difficult than I had anticipated. A direct result of the many horses that had clopped across the soggy ground. They had, in fact, done so much damage that I began to swear at the riders who had come before me.
I had already become fully aware of the weight of my backpack. The skin across my shoulders had become tender and raw. And my ankle and knee joints were taking a pounding. But, just as my lungs would soon acclimate to the thinner air, I anticipated that my legs, too, would soon become stronger. My shoulders would simply be something I would have to get used to.
By dusk I had covered more than ten miles. Reaching Frying Pan Mountain, and a campsite near a sizeable creek. My guide had made mention of a bridge across the creek. That bridge turned out to be no more than two felled trees that spanned the distance. I was finding that many of the descriptions of the trail were "hit-and-miss". For instance, of five intersecting trails I had encountered during the day, I was only able to identify two. Many of the lakes on the map seemed to match the map. But the distances were inconsistent, and often incorrect. Something I needed to keep in mind when searching for a campsite in the dwindling hours of daylight.
The weather had been variable. At mid-day, the sun was peeking through, and everything was melting and turning sloshy. I had ascended as high as 5,700', and made my way back down to around 4,600'. Which is where I made camp for the night.
I'd begun to notice the oversight of not having a watch. Although I had checked the sunrise/sunset tables before leaving (and knew I had about ten hours of light each day), it was an inconvenience not to know what time of day it was. Not so bad when you can see the sun. A little tougher when overcast. Or when you are in deep forest. And it would have helped to know when the end of the day was near. Whether to pitch camp where you stand. Or try and make it that last 1.6 miles to the next camping area. In better weather it would have been easy to hike until dusk and just set up a tent wherever you stop. But, with the weather turning soggy, there was a need to be more discriminating in campsite selection. I couldn't just plop down in the midst of a squishy marsh. Even the camp area I had chosen for this night wasn't ideal. I had pitched the tent in the open, away from the trees, which were dropping the moisture they had accumulated the last two days.
After making sure all of my gear was stowed, I got comfy and made some dinner. Nothing terribly hardy. An instant rice-and-beans soup, with half a bagel. And some hot apple cider mix. The bagels I had dehydrated, so as to avoid any molding over the two weeks. They were hard, but welcome.
Following dinner, I threw on boots and a rain jacket (it had begun raining, again). And went outside to refill the water bottles, and to hang my foodstuffs. High up, from a limb.
Back in the tent I made my nightly inventory. Checking to make sure clothes were staying dry. Checking fuel levels, and the stove. And thoroughly going over the map to see what was in store for the morrow. That done, I settled into the bag. I'd stripped down to the thermals and socks. (Which I later discovered kept me from heating up the inside of the bag.) It was turning very cold. I lay there most of the night, listening to the drops of moisture against the tent. First heavy, then faint. And hoped for better weather. Wet wasn't entirely a bad thing. But throw in the cold, and wet can become dangerous. I notice the top of my bag is still moist from my breathing, and hunker down a little further. There's a lot of tossing and turning before I finally sleep. With the rain outside beginning to sound like crystals.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
