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Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 818.7

Tuesday, september 24, 2019; day 65

The morning is less foggy than yesterday. It rained through the night. Though part of me is tempted to continue back to the visitors center for maps and an alternate route, I must see for myself if Swift Creek is still impassable. If I can make it across it should be flat terrain, and smooth sailing to Concrete

….Otherwise, I may be facing a lot of road walking.

I made my way back to the creek. I attempted to ford upstream, again I was forced to turn back. I scrambled up and down the banks. I stood on large boulders and surveyed the creek, looking for any place free of the white froth that appeared when the water crashed against the stones at high speed.

On my second attempt of the day, I made it across. As I neared the opposing bank my heart filled with glee, I knew I would make it. As I hit Earth, I brimmed with emotion. But it was not over yet. I still had to bushwhack 1/2 a mile back to the trail.I pushed my way through brush and climbed my way up the tremendously steep dirt embankments, my body hugging the earth, clinging desperately as I struggled upward.

As I descended, I slipped. My body was quick to react. I hooked my leg around the limb of a tree to stop my fall. I dug my heels into the earth and grabbed at every sturdy root and limb I could manage, as I slowly lowered myself to the creek.

I followed creekside as much as I could. When there where no stones and boulders to scramble along, I tried lowering myself in to the water. This time, the water level reached my chest. I moved inland, until there was no choice but to travel directly alongside the stream. Luckily, there was a steady path of stones.

Soon, I hit trail. I had made it.

I cried, I laughed, I was overwhelmed with the feeling of being truly alive; with the rush of engaging so rawly with nature; with the power of my own vulnerability and strength.

I could not relax fully, just yet. There was one more crossing of the creek. This time, there should be a fallen tree and rope to assist me. There are never any certainties, however.

To my relief there was a fallen tree. I crossed. I turned to gaze at the creek.

“Bye-bye Swift Creek!” I called out.

I carried on, dripping wet and light as a feather.

I joined the forest service road. The sun broke through the clouds. I removed my rain gear so that my wool garments may dry.

I sat in the middle of the decommissioned road, sun in my eyes, filled with joy and accomplishment and perseverance and laughter. I called out in thanks. I enjoyed a meal of cold soaked beans and rice.

This was living.

The walks that have followed the most challenging of bushwhacks, have been the best of my physical existence.

I joined Baker Lake Road.

I gazed at my feet. My shoes were literally falling apart. They did not need to last much longer.The beauty of a leaf stops me in my tracks.

I joined Baker Lake Trail, and crossed the Baker River Bridge.

I came to Noisy Creek Camp, and settled in for the night.

I had made it.

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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 730.1 (Winthrop)

Saturday, September 14, 2019; day 55

I am cold. It is so difficult to start early at over 6,000 ft. I need to get over it. I need to toughen up.

If I don’t make it to Ruby Creek in time for a hitch, at least I will be at under 2,000 ft. With warmth at that elevation being a relative non-issue, I am going to risk wearing my only wool layer. I was not fully prepared for the sudden change in weather. I have silk undergarments, which were cheaper, but no match for the cool mountains of the Pacific Northwest. I will get more gear in Winthrop.

As I descend towards Ross Lake, trees shake their little paper chimes.

“Why, hello to you, too!”, I say smiling.

It is so much cozier down here! The weather is perfect! Everything is wonderful.

I think of the long journey ahead; of the need to rush to beat the cold. I do not like to rush. I will not stop until my life is at risk, and even then I’ll find another way.

“You are so beautiful! I love you!”, I spout to the trail, to the woods, to nature. By the way they make me feel, I knew they loved me too.

A bird chirps, sending vibrations through the crisp air.

I cross a bridge. I had been there before. This was the alternate I took into Canada in 2016.

I moved quickly. I hoped to reach the road before nightfall.

Soon I came to the parking lot and East Bank trailhead.

I crossed the street to hitch east to Winthrop. I had roughly one hour before night fall.

Car after car sped by. I was becoming very discouraged. I started to eye where I might camp for the night. I thought of how I would have to head back down the trail to collect water.

I will try just a short while longer.

Then, a vehicle pulled over and into the parking lot.

At first I was not certain that they were stopping for me. After confirming their intentions to help, I ran over and told them that I was headed to Winthrop. They were headed to the closer town of Mazama. That would do! They made space for me in their vehicle and I hopped in. They introduced themselves as Ryan and Josh. They were out camping and cycling through the mountains. They were very familiar with the area and we exchanged many a story of outdoor adventure. They told me that I was free to camp with them tonight, as they were intending on heading to Winthrop in the morning. I very much enjoyed there company, and was flattered that they did not mind me tagging along.

Soon we came to Rainy Pass.

“We got another hitch-hiker”, Ryan announced, “we’ve got to make room!”

Their kindness made me giggle as we rearranged to make room for the PCT hiker.

Then, we were off once more. When we reached the little town of Mazama, we found their store to be closed. Commando, the PCT hiker, was also planning to go to Winthrop. So what did Ryan and Josh do? They changed their plans entirely and decided to travel the extra 20 miles to Winthrop that night! I was so thankful!

After arriving in Winthrop, everyone headed to a restaurant for drinks and a meal. I was working hard to budget, and had been falling behind on my writing, so my intentions were to go straight to the hostel. I found them so pleasant, however, that I decided to join, socializing over a hot cup of coffee (or three).

We spoke of hiking and the mountains and the cold. I told them how this was the longest stretch that I had ever been in the wilderness. I told them how I had been a bit frightened, and felt underprepared.

Then, Ryan retrieved some things from his car. He gifted me a pair of wool bottoms, and an old MSR Dragonfly stove that he said he had used for the past 20 years. I could not express my gratitude enough. Such amazing gifts of warmth and kindness. His generosity will never be forgotten!

Soon we parted ways. We all hugged goodbye, and Commando and I made our way up the hill towards the hostel.

I found my assigned bunk, and hungry but warm, fell asleep.

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Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 682.7

Wednesday September 11, 2019; Day 52

I sat on my socks to warm them, reviewed the maps and guidebook pages for the day, and played a song on my quena. I was 28 miles from joining the PCT, my first true love. I was excited.

What was not exceptionally thrilling was the burn devastation, and loss of trail that lay ahead.

I can travel cross country, I can bushwhack. I will get there.

I was so thankful for the sun. I walked a short distance east to collect water before venturing forward. I had not seen cows for some time. I did not filter.

I presoaked a meal. I would have to wait to add olive oil, it has been solidifying in the cold weather. As I moved forward, I realized I had made the right decision to set up camp. The trail proved difficult to locate even in daylight. I used horse tracks and scat to help guide me.

I laughed at the beauty, at the simple peace of being. As I rounded the southern slope of Quartz Mountain I could feel sunshine on my skin. I removed my raincoat. What luxury!

The trail disappears in the mountain meadows, but there are cairns to guide me.

I could see the burn devastation ahead. I stop at a cool, flowing stream. I drink deeply, and listen to its soft music.

As I move forward, the trail disappears entirely in the mud and soot. I spot a cairn, then another. Downed trees that have been freshly cut were another indicator of the trail. With intense observation and study of the subtle changes in terrain, I was able to successfully find my way.

A deer and buck graze in the distance. A light rain falls from the sky. A magical rainbow appears.

The appearance of the rainbow lifted my spirits, but I was cold. A fording of the Pasayten River lay ahead. I wanted desperately to make it across before nightfall.

I think back to the cabin, the heat, the company; to those that have opened their homes to me. I consider how strong a bond is formed when you pass a night in the company of a stranger.

I came to a sign.

Trail crews had re-routed the fording. The new crossing was 1.4 miles earlier, ensuring the presence of the sun!

I entered the water, opting to ford in my boots. I safely reached the other side, nestled within a brief breadth of living green. I removed my boots and rung what water I could from my socks. I laughed. Fording is always such a thrill.

I continued along the Boundary trail. The trail is clear, as is the sky –save for wisps of clouds. I took a break trailside, ate cold mashed potatoes and prepared for the night. It would be cold.

As I walked, I appreciated how the day slowly fades in to night. No abrupt flick of a light switch.

In the darkness, I miss a turn-off near the airfield. Entranced by the sillouhette of the mountains in the darkness, and the swiftness of my movement through the field, I did not realize my error until I had travelled nearly a mile.

I returned to the trail. Soon I am climbing and the stars make me giggle. The ascent is green, full of life– oh, the scent! I breathe in deeply, beneath the waxing moonlight. This is magic.

I come to the fording of Chuchuwanteen Creek, after midnight. I pause in middle of the fording, water lightly pushing and splashing the back of my knees. I gaze at the moon suspended to the southwest. Her reflection of light casts a rounded silvery glow upon the creek. The rushing cold water serves as a conduit for her energy, her magic. I stand still, in a moment of perfection

I forded and crossed more streams and creeks and rivers today, than I have over the entire stretch of the trail. Water is prevalent again! The burn regions and navigational challenges and disappearing trails are behind me (for now)!

I set up camp only miles from the Pacific Crest Trail. I fall to sleep satisfied, and excited for what tomorrow may bring.

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Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 658.8

Tuesday September 10, 2019; day 52

Devin stoked the last of the glowing embers for a morning fire. I hung my damp socks directly over the stove, for one last shot at drying.

Water was boiled and I was told I could use as much as I liked. Thrilled at the notion of hot coffee in the morning, I was only slightly phased when my peanut butter container began to melt. I watched as it sadly sank into itself. Folds of plastic and a newly rounded bottom left it unble to stand on its own. I sipped slowly and with delight. I enjoyed two cups.

Soon Devin and Doug departed. I set out shortly after.

I wear my rain skirt as a cape. My spirits are lifted by the haunting beauty of the fog and cold.

The climb towards Cathedral Pass was beautiful .

I continued long the Boundary Trail.

I made the fording of Ashnola River before night fall. The water level was quite manageable. I retained a bit wetness through the fabric bunched around my knees.

In just under a mile after fording, the trail dropped into a ravine and crossed a creek. The bridge had been destroyed and laid in shambles upstream. I followed a path that crosses downstream, and hugged the steep muddy banks as I belly-climbed back to the trail.

The night is clear, but presents a heavy chill.

Many trails branch off in the grassy brush. I take the clearest one, they alleventually head west.

I move along the alpine meadow of Sandy Ridge and collect water from a stream.

Then, the trail disappears within areas of burn. By the light of my headlamp, I struggled to continue. Knowing that water follows the path of least resistance, I tried following faint impressions of water streams in the mud. Concerned that I may venture too far off track, I hiked back to wear I lost the trail, and tried once more.

Unable to move forward with confidence, I determined it best to set up camp. I moved back and forth along the trail in search of a tent-site. The region was full of either dead and hazardous trees, or delicate alpine meadow.

I found a flat spot, just before the trail became unclear. I set up amongst the sturdiest of dead trees I could find. It is not ideal, but I am not left with much choice.

It is very cold, but I am dry. My sleeping bag is a fluffy pleasure. I snuggle within the fabric and quickly drift into sleep.

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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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Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 614.0

Saturday, September 7, 2019; day 49

I rose and moved to collect water from Palmer Lake.

I filter while reviewing the guide book. Looks like the route soon becomes a “maze of fading old roads and cow paths” until it reaches Cold Springs , and the “jump off point to the Pasayten Wilderness”.

These confusing routes no longer stir fear in me.

I found I was rather talkative this morning; spouting my thoughts verbally to myself in silly voices, humming Nutcracker melodies.

I glance at the easily accessible water spigots protruding from the grassy private property nearby. The sprinkler had been left shooting streams of water all through the night, and continued rhythmically with the break of day. So interesting how we live, with “ownership” of land and water.

As I walk towards Toats-Coulee Road, the people are all smiles and waves and outhouse offerings. People seemed to know what I was up to.

I was not enjoying the lake water, however. Things lose their essence when they stop moving.

Thankful for the cloud coverage, I took a break just before climbing Chopaka Creek Road.

People do not seem to notice much that is not in their path.

I tie my bandana above my left knee. I consider how the simplest measure is often the most effective.

As I climbed the road, I heard ATVs pull up to the lot where I had just taken a break.

I stop to watch and listen.

One of them called out to another, “Hey, how fast can you go up here!?”

“As fast as ya want!” Said the other.

“I don’t know about that!”, the first replied.

“Hey! Watch out for me!” I called.

Judging by their lack of response, they did not hear me. I need to work on my ‘outside voice’.

I began to see the cattle gaurds as a form of childhood hopscotch… which I played often, and was getting rather good at it.

Found myself considering how beautiful this walk would be on a cool clear night.

I longed for the vibrancy of cold spring water.

At 1422, the thunder sounded.

I put on my pack cover.

All the ATVs zoom by me in a rush off the mountain.

I finally come to cold, flowing water. I stop to drink and collect and appreciate.

Cows gather at the cattle guard. Terrified at my approach, yet unable to cross the guard, I watch as they rush off to my left. One somehow pushes itself through a barbed wire fence.

The sky remains clear, giving me confidence as I approach the less discernable parts of the trail.

A rusted barbed wire catches my right leg, entangling as I walk. Surprised, I stop to free myself. Only scratches, no blood drawn.

I connect to a jeep road and continue. Unfortunately, I continued for too long. I was only supposed to follow the road for 300 yards. I turned back and found the correct junction.

I was running out of daylight.

The trail was very faint and difficult to follow in the dark.

I see bright flashes of light in the distance. Lightning. It is not followed by a sound, but strikes my nerves.

In just one more mile, I would come to a clearly defined forest service road.

There is another lightning burst.

The trail has faded away in the night. I am uncertain of where to turn.

Then, something catches my eye. Reflecting the light of my headlamp, is a cow patty. It points me in the direction of a cow path, and I find my way.

As I walk the forest service road, the moon calls my attention.

I stop and stare. I am flooded with joy.

Another flash of light fills the sky.

I am uncertain if I should continue further in to the night.

At 2204, I set up my tent at the Cold Springs Campground. My tent smells fresh, like dryer sheets. It is mold free, from the recent wash and dry.

At 2317, I heard the first drops of rain.

Vibrations of pain shoot up and down the bottom of my feet.

Tomorrow will be cold and wet.

At 0300 I woke to the loud cracking of thunder.

I listen as cows move about in heavy groups in the night.

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Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 595.8

Friday, September 6, 2019; day 48

I checked out of the hotel, spent time at the library, and followed paved roads through town to join the Similkameen Trail.

The trail hugged the beautiful Similkameen River. It provided a nice dirt, then gravel pathway before joining Loomis-Oroville road.

Shortly after I joined the road, Border Patrol drove past. They turned around and parked beside me.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”, they said as they exited their vehicle.

“Sure.” I removed my sunglasses and walked towards him.

“Thank you” he said, and asked my name.

He introduced himself, and we shook hands.

He asked where I was from. I offered what I was doing.

He told me that smugglers of drugs, and human trafficking frequent this road. Now that he had my info–should he get a call concerning a pedestrian with a pack–he will know who I am.

He asked where I was headed that night. We discussed Miners Flats Campground, though I had the intention of going further.

As he drove off, I waved goodbye. He flashed his rear light in response. A quick red and blue farewell. This made me giggle.

The road was not busy. It was beautiful.

I howled. I laughed. I was happy to be on the move.

I untie the bandanna from my neck and tie it above my left knee.

I passed the Miners Flats Campground.

A second campground came in to view with the falling night.

I could not stop. There were hardly any cars, no grizzlies, a wide shoulder, clear skies, and I had walking to do.

Star-flames illuminate.

I notice a pair of headlights in the distance that were not moving.

There was a man outside the car, walking along the dry hillside. He was calling something out as he moved forward.

Did he lose his dog?

He continued in my direction.

As our paths nearly cross, I decide to vocalize my presence.

“Hello!?”

There is no response. Then I realize that the truck/pedestrian duo must be herding cattle.

I walked up to the parked truck and spoke with the elderly man in the cab. He told me that the cattle were on the wrong side of the cattle guard. They were trying to get them back where they belonged.

I mentioned to the man that I was hiking a long trail, and was just headed along the road until I found a suitable place to camp.

We both continued on our way.

A short while later a car pulled up and parked beside me. I walked up to the passenger door. Nothing happened. Peculiar.

I was confused as how to proceed.

Then the glass partition disappeared into the door.

“Sorry. I did not realize that I had not rolled down the window.” The man inside continued, “Dad said you were looking for a place to camp?”

I realized that I was speaking to the man from the hillside.

“Yeah. This road seems pretty safe to me, and the night is clear. I was planning on camping at the next campground.”

“That’s like 5 miles from here.”

“That’s okay.”

The man told me that he had some gated property up the road, just after passing the entrance way to Canada. I could stay there if I wanted. I would have it all to myself save for a couple cattle.

“If any one gives you trouble, just say ‘Dan said it was okay’. If they don’t know who Dan is, they have no business being there. Just make sure to shut the gate.”

I thanked him for the offer and continued.

There were not many cars on the road. The cars that did pass slowed nearly to a stop when they saw me.

As I entered the small community of Nighthawk (population: 5), I could hear loud, smooth, folk-y music play from a stereo.

I was curious. I noticed people socializing on a porch. I moved slowly, and tried waving. They were unresponsive. I suppose that was understandable. It was just around 2200, and I was not much more than an unidentified disturbing light in the distance.

I continue.

The dry grasses hiss like a snake at my ankles. It surprises me in to laughter.

Finally, I arrived to Palmer Lake Campground.

I found a little site near the entrance to star-camp for the night.

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Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 575

Wednesday, September 4, 2019; day 46

I woke to the soft humm of kitchen electronics.

I heated some water for my instant coffee.

I packed up, quickly left a note of thanks on the bulletin board, and was back on the road by 0730.

I turned on to Swanson Mill Road. The cows abounded.

I did not not feel like using my trekking poles. I tied my bandana above my left knee.

I walked an alternate along Mount Hull Road and reconnected with the PNT at Sullivan Lake Road.

Soon after, I joined Trail 100. The trail was maintained by backcountry horsemen.

Along the trail, I missed a fallen sign post and continued in the wrong direction.

I found my way back and joined the Whistler Canyon Trail.

The climb out of the canyon was rewarded with wonderful views.

I came around a bend, and was shown the little town of Oroville.

I wanted to camp as close to town as possible.

I found a flat spot with a bench .7 of a mile from US Highway 97.

Little cacti stick to my pack.

As the sun sets it becomes shady and beautiful.

I watch as the little buildings and houses light up below.

I feel like a silent watcher, viewing the town secretly from above.

The stars and moon greet me as I lay on the exposed rock, beneath their light, high above town.

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Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 550

Tuesday, September 3, 2019; day 45

I woke to the sound of a car driving down the paved road behind me. So many car encounters on this journey. I went to retrieve my charger from the bathroom. It is now 0604, I am sleepy.

I begin to pack up my things and collect water from the campground spigot.

Soon Asa was packing up as well.

It felt nice to wake up in the company of another.

He took spoonfuls of peanut butter, and I drank an instant coffee/protein/maca shake as we sat around the picnic table.

Asa was familiar with the Pipsissewa Trailhead, and offered to walk me there.

We chatted a bit longer, exchanged contact information, and hugged goodbye.

“I always tell other cyclists to ‘keep the wind at your back!'”

“That’s a nice thing to say! Thank you!”

I wished him the best of luck in his amazing journey.

Then, we both set off!

I gazed down at Bonaparte Lake.

I travelled through a logging area, and a section where the trail had been cleared of many blowdowns.

As I hiked, I decided to follow the Original PNT Alternate. I would follow the Mount Bonaparte Trail, then join the Antoine Trail, which reconnects with the Primary PNT.

The trail was clear, and I was able to move quickly.

Soon the PNT briefly meets the little community of Havillah. There is a church there that is only .3 of a mile off of trail. It is said to be very hiker friendly, providing hikers with water and snacks and a place to camp. I hoped to make it there before dark. The miles immediately proceeding Havillah were roads, flanked by private properties.

Havillah is a beautiful little community.

As I approached the church, two graceful young bucks and a doe leaped over a distant fence.

The trail magic was more than I had anticipated. They had a little bulletin board at the side yard of the church, welcoming hikers to collect water and camp either outside, or inside the unlocked building.

I was elated.

It was dark, I moved around inside with the red light of my headlamp. Atop and inside the fridge were containers labeled “For PNT Hikers”. They contained a variety of snacks and food and fresh apples! There were even frozen meals for hikers, in the freezer! I could not believe it. It was certainly some of the best trail magic I had encountered on any trail. I was extremely grateful.

I enjoyed the fresh fruit and microwavable meal of quinoa and grains.

I placed my things to charge and set myself up for sleep on the soft carpet.

I fell to sleep in a space of good-heartedness, filled with thanks.

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Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 530.2

Monday, September 2, 2019; day 44

I surfaced to consciousness with the lightening sky. So peaceful.

I turn to my side within my down cocoon and watch as the sun lifts and expands its radiant light.

I packed up quickly. I was still interested in visiting the Bonaparte Lake Resort, 15 miles away. I had read that they offer free showers to hikers.

I was glad I had stopped a bit short and slept within the woods. It coos my drive and motivation…unlike paved roads; like those I was about to hike along.

I began the descent towards Cougar Creek Road.

An owl soars within my line of path. Graceful in its heavy silence, it lands on a branch ahead.

I joined the road, and as expected, cut through private property.

I could see a group of people gathered in chairs around a fire. There were beautiful tapestries of cool colors and moonscapes.

One person who was seated, turned and looked my way.

“Hello” I say. “Sorry, I think the trail goes through here…”

“It does”, replied a woman standing beside the tapestries and make-shift kitchen.

The woman introduced herself as Lynn, and offered me a hot cup of coffee.

I never refuse a cup of coffee.

I removed my pack and sipped the hot beverage and chatted with Lynn and Jay and their loved ones. They had purchased the property a while back, and they were slowly moving in. I asked her how she felt about the trail running through their yard. She said that she did not mind the hikers, that it was the hunters that left trash.

I left the encounter smiling.

I continued along the roads.

The air is dry. Locusts cause crackling sounds in the brush. Sweat drips off my body. I dream of a shower.

I move along the pavement, a wavy being wading through heat induced delirium.

I turn on to Bunch Road, greeted by cattle and blinding white gravel.

I close my eyes and lilt as I walk.

Eventually I joined a forest service road. The road was slightly overgrown, which made for a pleasantly cushy, shaded hike.

I soon hit the asphalt of Bonaparte Lake Road and headed to the resort.

I bought a 35 cent bar of soap, and was told where I could find the shower.

A very social guest of the resort spotted my pack and told me that there was someone travelling by bike out on the patio. “Why don’t you go say “hi”, she encouraged.

I instantly knew it was the bike-packer I had seen earlier.

I went to the patio and introduced myself to Asa.

We chatted for a long while around a table on the deck of the restaurant, then we returned to his camp site and chatted some more. We spoke of our journeys (he had started in DC and was also travelling to the coast), and how one seems to enter the travelling community when they pursue these adventures more than once.

We relayed fresh stories of adventure as I let my external battery pack charge in the nearby public restroom.

We spoke of the mantras we repeat to ourselves, and how the locals have been friendlier to him since he started wearing a camo hat.

Asa paused in conversation and looked to the surface of the picnic bench where we sat. “We have certainly covered this table, haven’t we!?” We both looked at the bottles and plastic baggies and maps and sleeping pads that sat in disheveled display. We both began laughing hysterically. My eyes began to water and my belly ached. It was the hardest I had laughed in some time.

I decided to accept his offer to stay at his site. I star-camped, gazing at the night sky and listening to the beautifully haunting call of loons on the lake.

It was the first night I had spent on trail in the intentional company of another.