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Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 802.2

Sunday September 22, 2019; day 63

It’s raining this morning; not a lot, just a pit-pit-pattering.

I am thankful that the mouse that was climbing up the netting and under the floor of my tent last night, did not decide to chew right through.

As I exit, I notice a spider has used the crown of my tent as support for its web.

I gathered water from Ruth Creek.

It crashes and flows, steadily and swiftly–swelling as it receives the beautiful snowmelt from the mountaintops.

I will be walking Mount Baker Highway today. It is Sunday. I am hoping the rain will be a deterrent to tourist traffic. Right now, as I pack up, traffic sounds very light. I am hopeful.

The mapset says “Highway 542 is steep and winding without a shoulder and limited sight distance. PNTA is working with the USFS on a trail relocation in this area”

When they are not busy I like walking roads… they are like railroad tracks, an industrial speedway that spans miles and miles.

Expressions on faces of drivers as they pass, make me giggle.

Some people stop to ask if I am alright.

A feel a car pull up slowly behind me. It was Ryan, the man who had provided me with gifts of warmth.

“I know you won’t accept a ride, but I will pull over so that we can chat for a bit.”

This made me feel as though he fully supported my continuous footpath.

I left the conversation with a lightness in my step that comes with the delightful whimsy of coincidence.

I did not find the roadwalk to be dangerous or uncomfortable.

The rain came down in buckets. I grew cold. I stopped at a trailhead bathroom to put on more layers. I considered boiling some water for hot coffee, but I dismissed it as a tad ridiculous. I knew it would be best to press on.

I stopped at the Visitor Center before joining the Lake Ann trail. I gathered a couple of snacks and a rice and bean meal.

I followed the Lake Ann trail, then turned to join the Swift Creek trail. With all of the rain, the trail itself was a flowing stream.

I began to consider the coming ford. I hoped to make it there before nightfall.

The rain did not let up. I continued crossing many, many streams along the way.

I stopped. I watched as a Mountain Goat stared in to the distance. I wondered what it was doing. Contemplating life, perhaps. Then it noticed me. It leaped off the ledge and down the mountainside. What an impressive, magical, whimsical looking creature!

I realized that I would not make it to Swift Creek before dark. There were also not many places to camp.

I noticed a flat space just off trail. It just did not seem right. I moved on.

Soon I questioned my decision to continue. The rain remained heavy, and a fog was setting in. I became desperate. I scoured for a place, hopeful at every bend and turn, that something may appear.

Finally, I found a spot that would (barely) do.

I cleared the forest floor of branches and twigs and erected my tent by the light of my headlamp.

I crawled inside. I was safe. I changed in to dry clothes. I was warm.

I would face Swift Creek in the morning.

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Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 766.8

Friday, September 20, 2019; day 61

The day looks promising. I will mostly be dealing with the wetness of shrub.

I strap on the long gaiters I purchased in winthrop (a relatively futile effort, considering the shape of my shoes).

I will be travelling over Whitcom Pass today. It is said to be one of the most challenging climbs of the trail.

As I move, I notice changes in the foliage, the trees and leaves broaden. There is a deepening of green.

I take joy in the crunching of autumn leaves beneath my step.

I began the ascent up Whitcom. I become frustrated with the technological gadget I use to communicate with my family. It opens a flood-gate deep within me. I stop at a very preliminary switchback. I sit. I cry. I sob. I cry for everything and everyone, for nothing and no one. It is heavy and powerful. I look ahead. To the rushing water from the opposing rocky mountainside. I watch it cascade down from the melting snow fields above. I am in awe of its composure. It is still and beautiful as water pours and rushes along its cracks and gathers in its crevices.

Let them be your teachers, I tell myself. Let your emotions flow freely, but keep a calmness inside; an inner stillness of love and realization of what truly matters. I cry more. Hugged by the wild, I lift myself and continue.

Whitcom pass was amazing. I ascend slowly, gazing at the surrounding ice-covered peaks; how they melt and flow and feed the Earth.

As I descend, night falls. I come to the Whitcom campsite. There was a quick flash of light from my headlamp. As I wondered if I had imagined it, it happens again. I attempt to adjust the power of the lamp, and it goes black. I fumble for the spare batteries I had found in a hiker box. I drop one, and feel around for it in the darkness. They were fairly easy to spot, obtrusive and shiny and perfect in shape…they did not belong.

The fog rolled in so quickly. So thick! I find fog to be the biggest challenge toward my tendency to hike in the darkness.

I stopped at Graybeal Camp for the night. How dreadful to have only made it so far. It was an emotional day, however.

My heart weighs heavy.

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Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 734.9

Wednesday, September 18, 2019; day 59

The rain cleared by the afternoon, and I set off.

I stood at a westbound entrance to Route 20. It was not long before a kind man called Dave, with high energy and a love for adventure, pulled over to give me a lift. I told him that I was not heading to Rainy Pass, but further west to the East Bank trailhead to continue along the Pacific Northwest Trail. To my surprised delight he knew of the trail, and knew exactly where I was headed. He would be passing there on his way home to Concrete. I told him that I intended on going to Concrete to resupply. He gave me his card and told me to contact him when I get there. He said that his wife makes the best vegan quinoa chili, and that they would love to have me over! Oh, how wonderful!

We pulled in to the East Bank trailhead. Dave was curious about the route I was taking, so I pulled out my maps and we reviewed them together. He told me that he had hiked the Swift Creek trail, which would be part of my route. He told me that they had recently done a lot of work on the trail, and that it was in good shape. He mentioned a fording, but I did not pay that much mind…I had plenty of fordings under my belt.

I was hiking again by 1700.

The past three days now felt like a dream.

As I hiked, I could see the distant lights of Ross Lake Resort.

I came to the Ross Lake Dam Service Road. Just off the road was a covered picnic area.

I liked the idea of not having to set up my tent. I decided to sleep beneath the covering, beside the benches.

Soon, I had company. They were the largest, cutest, bushy-tailed little scavengers I had ever seen.

They were also persistent.

I thought that they may not make it up to the picnic bench, so I moved myself and my things, positioning myself precariously on top of the wooden table. This was not a deterrent. They continued to scramble on top of me and amongst my gear, frequently leaving little “presents”.

It was too much to handle. I resigned to a flat spot beside the picnic area, and set up my tent.

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Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 627.4

Sunday, September 8, 2019; day 50

I am concerned with the potential difficulties of navigating in the rain. Fire damage throughout the Pasayten may pose challenging conditions: dead and downed trees, indiscernible trail.

There does not seem to be much elevation change moving forward. If I move quickly, maybe I can make it the 23 miles to the Old Tungsteon Mine cabins.

I make sure everything is in plastic bags. I fill up on water to full capacity and pre-soak a meal. I don’t want to stop until I set up camp, and I want to have enough water to camp at any moment. The frequency of listed campsites in the coming miles is comforting.

It may be a subconscious tactic towards survival, but it seems that post initiation one is always less afraid.

The birds sing and there is a light buoyancy to the air. I laugh at the appearance of my shadow.

I find relief in the clear orange blazing of The Chopaka Trail.

It is not long before the sky dims and the rain sets in. I had removed my base layers in the heat of the morning sun. Caught in shorts and a sleeveless top, I put on my rain skirt and rain jacket and continue.

As I hike, I offer self motivation: you have done this before; the weather is not scary; there is only one option: keep going– find a way–there is always a way.

***

I have set up camp in a dry pond bed, only 13 miles from where I began. Night has fallen. I am soaking wet. The cold rattles my bones. The rain did not cease until the sun no longer shone. I considered hiking in to the night but I was worried about staying warm. My fingers and toes burn as I hurried to pitch my tent, as I told myself it was okay to stop if I tried harder tomorrow.

I eat a dinner of cold mashed potatoes. I curl my body inward, within my damp down bag. My legs convulse involintarily. I am concerned. I check the weather with my satellite device. Tomorrow: 37 degrees and more rain. I am still 102.7 miles from a possible hitch in to town.

Should I have pushed further? Would I have been able to stay warm?

I marvel at the extreme change in weather. Usually there is some warning. I feel foolish and shocked. I was not physically or mentally prepared. My dry sacks have failed me. A wet down bag without an emergency bivy is extremely dangerous.

I suppose the transition from a hot valley road walk to 6,985 ft elevation within the rugged Pasayten Wilderness, is not so fluid.

I hope this weather is but a warning of what is to come, not what is here.

I curl into a ball. I watch my breathe in the light of my headlamp. For the first time on trail, I feel alone. I long for the heat of another. I think of what it would be like to cuddle a cow. I think of what it would be like to freeze, alone in the wilderness. I think about the danger of not being prepared for the cold. I wonder if I should turn back. Then I think of the cabin in 13 miles. I could make a fire. I could dry out my sleeping bag.

I think of the East Bank trailhead, just over 100 miles away.

You can make it there. Just make it there.

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Thirteen Mile Campground (PNT alternate; exact mileage unknown)

Friday, August 30, 2019; day 41

The sky sent little drops of liquid encouragement. I shot up and out of my sleeping bag, moving quickly to save my dry items from the rain. I was thankful for it’s light touch. My sleeping bag, maps, guidebook, and phone remained dry. It was about time I started hiking earlier, anyway.

I was moving, just after 0600. I enjoyed the quiet of the morning, the heavy lifting. This part of the world was rising. I realized that I had not met this aspect of the forest on this trip. Each time of day, each season, have such varying essences…different personalities.

The first bird song of the day to reach my ears is loud and repetitive, remarkably akin to a car alarm. It changes tempo: quick then slower then a pause. The pitch is constant.

The morning is moist and rich and beautiful.

I think of time, that it’s existence is based on our own mortality.

The region turns dry, but is breathtaking. Grasses of gold bend and dance to the soft howling of the wind.

The beauty causes a well within me to overflow with appreciation, actuating in resounding laughter.

I came to a small stream, before anticipated.

Just as I am about to remove my shoes and filter, a large grumble fills the air. I look up. The sky is overcast.

…it sounds again.

It begins to rain. Then, another loud clapping.

I leave my shoes on. I put on my rain-gear, and cover my pack.

I collect water and sit right in the center of trail, legs stretched straight out in front of me, and filter.

It rains harder. I continue to sit and filter.

In this moment, I did not mind the rain. It is powerful. It rolls and gathers and pools along my rain gear. It drips down my back. It is cool, but I am not cold. The smell is fresh. I enjoyed the feeling of it washing over me.

As I am finishing, the rain lightens. The grey opens to blue skies and sunshine. The clouds then quickly cover the sun once more, but it seems the rain had ceased. Oh, the unpredictable charm of Washington!

I gather my pack, and continue up the trail.

In avoidance of another bushwhack, I follow the alternate route recommended by the PNTA. It continues along Thirteen Mile Trail. I find the trail to be extremely beautiful. I paused many times, to show appreciation; to take it all in.

I reached Thirteen Mile Campground, where it meets Route 21. There is a beautiful stream of cold, clear water. I take a large sip of the water I had filtered, from my previous collection. It tastes like a farm smells. I feel sick to my stomach. I pour it all out and replace it.

Now, to join Route 21. Taking the alternate extends my walk along the road, but only by a couple of miles. The primary PNT also joins Route 21 after the bushwhack. The guidebook states that it is not a very busy road.

That was not my experience.

There was only about one hour left of daylight. The road walk was breathtaking, but the cars zoom by so fast, causing the fabric of my clothes to flutter. It makes me terribly uneasy.

I notice a sign regarding noxious weed control. I wonder if poison has been sprayed. I think back to the leg swelling I experienced after the road walk in to Northport.

As the shoulder lessons, and the sky darkens, and the cars continue to drive by wildly…I get nervous. I was very uncomfortable. I wonder if I should turn back, and sleep at the Thirteen Mile Campground. I cannot bring myself to do it. Instead I search for a flat space far enough from the pavement, to sleep safely for the night.

Aha! I had found something!

As I continued to approach, I spotted a mother grizzly and her two cubs. My potential sleeping spot was clearly their domain. There was positively no shoulder on the other side of the street. I was positioned between a group of grizzlies on one side and speeding cars on the other, all  beneath a sky turning towards darkness.

I turned around.

Just a few moments after deciding to head back, a red truck stops to warn me that there was a mother grizzly and cubs just behind me. I told him that I had seen them and decided to turn around. He drove off.

Then his truck stopped. He asked if I needed a ride anywhere. I asked him to take me back to Thirteen Mile Campground, only about a mile away.

The man was a hunter. He commented on all of the tourists in a very frustrating tone. I suppose it is Friday.

At least Thirteen Mile Campground is surrounded by beauty, and has a nice stream.

I was frustrated that my plans to continue hiking were thwarted, but I was happy to have a safe place to rest.

I set up my tent by a picnic bench and went to sleep.