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.
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     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.