IN THE JOURNEY, Epilogue

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.