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.