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.