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.

Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 500.4

Saturday, August 31, 2019; day 42

I did not want to rise. I felt bloated, uncomfortable, sick. I had broken the zipper to my tent in the middle of the night. I fear State Route 21.

I review the guidebook. It states: “Enjoy this road walk through San Poil Canyon which has very light traffic” I feel mislead. It was not light.

There is a trash at the campground. I took the opportunity to ditch more weight. I discarded a carabiner, extra bandages, an empty peanut-butter container (why in the world had I been carrying two?). I cut out the lining of my shorts with the tiny scissors of my tiny Swiss Army tool. They were surprisingly heavy and entirely without purpose (like many things in today’s world).

I noticed a hole in my shorts. I considered how long it may have been there, as I sewed it up.

My gaiters have two large tears on either side. This seemed to make them more dangerous than anything, liable to snag. I have grown to like them very much, however. I will sew them up as well, but later.

I pack up my tent, saddened by the broken zipper. At least there are two pieces of velcro to hold it shut. Will that hold up in a storm? Maybe I should just sew the darn thing shut. There is another exit on the other side.

I go to fetch water. The good quality, its cold clarity, lift my spirits.

I hear a car.

I return to my pack to watch an older man, cigarette  in mouth,  move bags of trash and foam padding from his truck bed to the campsite trash bin. I am annoyed by this as I watch. Finally he sees me. He lifts his hand. “Hi” I say, flatly.

I listen to the traffic whiz by in the distance.

I can do it I can do it I can do it.

I say to myself “I am not afraid of the cars. People will see me.”

The lower I sink, the more intense the determination that springs.

“Ok. Take two.”

The walk was indeed beautiful.

At least cars are not sneaky. You can hear them coming.

There are far fewer cars than last night. They seem more amiable and slow. Some even slow down deliberately to see if I react as if I want a ride.

I came to the place where I had spotted the mother grizzly and her cubs. I replay the situation in my mind. They were closer than I had realized. There was certainly no way I could have safely proceeded.

Suddenly, happiness finds me again. It is inevitable, I am certainly not hiding.

I take note of the litter. Beer cans, half full Sobe bottles, more beer cans. I din’t get it. They are in a car. Can’t it wait? Surely they will see a trash soon enough. Then it dawned on me. Drinking and driving. Evidence. Evidence and integrity, straight out the window.

I imagine this is what a roadside deer feels like.

I reached the Ten Mile Campgroud and trailhead. After completing the Ten Mile Trail (which was just over two miles) I would divert from the primary PNT , yet again. I would follow ten miles of open, dirt, forest service roads to bypass another bushwhack. I would rejoin the primary PNT at the W. Fork Scatter Creek Forest Service Road.

I passed through the trail quickly, and joined the road.

The wind blows. It rains pine needles and leaves. It is magic.

I think about motivation. This–these walks, these travels– is what I do to keep love and hope alive within myself.

I sit for a m moment roadside. A hunter I had seen earlier on the road parks and offers me cold water. I accept.

I look up at the tree tops. They sway, top heavy. The sun on my skin is hot, but pleasing.

I continue.

A red truck revs its engine unnecessarily while zooming by in reckless spurts along the curving forest road. It continues as it passes me. I glare. They are a large group. They laugh as they pass. I turn to watch as they park, music blaring, all four doors and the tailgate thrown open. They gather something. Downed trees for firewood, I am assuming.

One sees me watching and calls out: “Welcome to America!”

I say nothing. I keep walking.

The sun, setting behind the clouds, has them traced in gold.

I reach  Ogle creek. The roadside culvert is fenced. I remove my pack and gather my empty bottles. I then slide my feet, then legs, then rest of self under the lowest wooden plank. Little hopping insects with tiny bodies and long legs move about the waters surface, then pause– floating like lily pads– then start again. I am thankful for the clear stream running from the culvert.

I throw my full bottles ahead of me, then push and undulate my way back up, beneath the lowest wooden plank.

It is dark. I scan for a place to camp. There is not much. Many times I leave the road, scouring the woods that show potential, but return after deeming the space unsuitable.

Finally, I reach a place that will do. I had not intended to set up my tent. The howling of wolves is very near.  It sounds painful. Their nearby calls, and the uncertainty of the roads left me desiring shelter.

I set up my tent. I fell to sleep.

Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 474.1

Thursday, August 29, 2019; day 40

I rose late on the cabin floor. Shielded from the sun, my body did not recieve its usual call to rise.

There would be bushwhacking today, just after Edds Mountain. I have chosen to do the alternate. It is about 2 miles longer and includes a bit of roadwalking, but it should provide nice views from Edds Mountain and an easier, much shorter bushwhack.

I consider water. I am utilizing the Guthook app as a water report. Hikers update the app with comments of the strength, location and quality of a water source. There are rarely any updates for this region, dating after August. Water is becoming scarce. Many of the springs are no longer dependable.

I collect water from the same spring as last night. I position the pipe to my liking, to get the fastest and cleanest flow. I fill up and drink up. Who knows what the bushwhack will bring.

The early morning was hot, but the day cooled quickly.

I diverted from the Edds Mountain trail and bushwhacked south in search of an old forest road. I hugged the line of new growth pines to the east. The bushwhack was fairly easy.

I located the first old road, and followed it for a short while.

Then, after a slight bit of confusion, I realized that I needed to continue (a very minimal amount of) bushwhacking, to locate the second.

The second road crossed a stream. I collected and rested for a bit. It was just a couple more miles along this road before I would reconnect with the PNT, on Hall Creek Road.

With the easy grade and obstacle free terrain, I was able to gaze upward as I walked.

I joined Hall Creek Road, then Thirteen Mile Trail # 23.  The tread was easy to follow, but there were many switch-backs and changes in elevation that are not on the map, causing the mileage to be off. This made the trail more challenging than it appeared.

I hoped to make it to another water source before setting up camp. Bearpot Campground and Pond was not far (~4 miles, according to the map) but the idea of pond water did not thrill me. I was far more interested in the stream said to be located where Thirteen Mile Trail, and Thirteen Mile Road intersect. This was roughly another five miles after Bearpot Campground.

I pushed forward. I still had a liter of water. I was not terribly concerned.

As night fell, I grew tired.

I found a a flat spot just to the side of the trail. I laid out my gear, and star-camped, still about two miles shy of Bearpot Campground.

Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 439.2

Saturday, August 24, 2019; day 35

I rose, crawled out of my tent (after untangling my hair from the zipper), and went in search of the faint trail that led to an access point of the North Fork of Little Boulder Creek. It was far easier to spot in the light of day.

I returned to my tent, filtered, and reviewed the guidebook.

So many roads.

At least they are Forest Service Roads. I thought of how they were sort of the middle ground between wilderness and civilization. A medial place where wilderness and society meet. I don’t know much about Forest Service Roads, or what exactly is being “serviced”.  I need to learn more about what is being said.

I thought of moderation and extremes.

I stopped and ate breakfast, roadside.

I continued on.

I passed the only water source for miles. I turned back to find it, periodically stopping to hear beyond the sound of my footsteps on gravel. Then I hear it faintly.

I stop to collect, sitting cross-legged as I filter from one bottle to the other.  A raised SUV with giant wheels drives by. The man inside waves and nods as he passes. Human sightings on these roads make me nervous, especially when I am stationary. When I am sitting, things splayed about, I feel vulnerable. I listen for the sound of the motor, making sure it fades away entirely before I fully relax and return to the water.

Two young people pass on an ATV.

The road becomes wilder as it climbs, practically becoming a trail as it descends to the southeast.

Suddenly the “trail” disappears. So many fallen trees, such overgrowth! I continue, pushing and climbing my way forward. I notice twisted, rusting barbed wires between downed trees. I remember the history of the path, what potential dangers its industrial use could bring.

It was not long before the path became clear again. I  felt positively euphoric from the excitement of the quasi bushwhack.

The contrast of wildflowers and new growth in a burn area is so outstanding in beauty; a stunning portrayal of death and rebirth.

I was happy to join the Kettle Crest Trail.

As I hiked into the night, I began to look for a place to camp.

The entire region of forest was burned. “Widow-makers” or “snags” abounded. Though I found them to be very visually appealing, they did not make for safe sleeping. The wind could blow, their roots could lift from the earth, they could fall at any moment.

I soon realized that camping within the burn area was unavoidable. There was no swaying or creaking of trees. The night was calm, the stars brilliant.

I found a spot of relative clearing. I would star-camp.

I was alone out here. I have not seen a single hiker on trail since Montana.

I laid out my ground tarp and mat right in the center of the sandy trail.

Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 420.2

Friday, August 23, 2019; day 34

I rose so cozy and dry!

I turned to the rhythmic sound of weight-in-motion. I smiled gleefully as I watched two of the neighborhood cows partake in their morning stroll, in a single file line, right down the center of Forest Service Road 15.

One spotted me, spotting them, and they gave a little jump.

My leg is much better this morning. I am beginning to think it was certainly a reaction to some poison.

I thank the space for amazing rest. I Express my love and gratitude. I turn to leave. The nozzle on my bladder hose pops off, releasing a steady stream of water on the forest floor, and the rear of my shorts. I awkwardly move to catch it like a dog after its tail. I hold it upright to stop the flow as I reach down for the mouthpiece, I reattach and resecure. I wonder how much I lost. There is a creek in 10 miles. I cannot be bothered to fetch more. I have a liter in a bottle. This is not the first time this has happened.

I walk. I think.

Though I understand there are no certainties. Can there not be certainties of intention? Amongst humans, in my experience, it is not uncommon for someone to say something they do not fully mean. Completion is never a certainty. I believe intention can be strong and unwavering.

I take comfort in those in my life with intention that is both full and pure hearted, and as strong in fruition as their zest for life. Thank you.

These woods are beautiful. The sky is hazy.

I discover the source of that giant whimsical seed that soars through the air, a magical prelude to life.

It began to rain, ever so faint and gently.

Then larger drops with greater speed, hitting the ground hard enough to imbue a fragrance.

I move quickly to fetch water from a creek beyond a bridge marked “Private”.

Two deer cross paved 395 at the same time as me. They are just south of me. We match each others pace, all three of us pausing briefly in the street. I call out for them to move along. The roads are dangerous. I continue.

I found a flat space roadside, by the North Fork of Little Boulder Creek.

I set up my tent and crawled inside for the night.

Pacific Northwest Trail; mile 404.9

Thursday, August 22, 2019; day 33

I woke early and so happily in Sarah’s home. We sipped coffee over conversation. We talked about travel and exploration and the nature of small towns. She expressed interest in pursuing her own backpacking adventure! I encouraged her to do so.

She offered breakfast and blueberries as she prepared her morning smoothie. I was delighted with the hot coffee, and a handful of sweet berries.

Soon, I was over to Jaelle’s to say goodbye. Sarah and I hugged farewell. It was such a pleasure to get to know her. I will always remember her kindness.

At Jaelle’s they were eating a breakfast of rice and beans and tomatoes. Jaelle likes to feed people. I joined in. We chatted and ate.

They looked at my leg. “Oh, so much better!” they remarked.

I thanked them for their kindness, and headed out.

I crossed the bridge over the Columbia River.

I hit a downhill slope of travel. I let it propel me forward. My leg feels better. I feel motivated. I can do this.

The most challenging part of the road walk was the exposure. The barren stoney, tarry, dusty road reflecting a mid-day sun, in the oven of a valley.

Oh yes…and the strange metal creature with a human brain, and all their unpredictabilities as they merge as one at 30 to 60 mph.

I stop for lunch at Sheep Creek Campground. I eat at a picnic bench. I then lay myself flat on the ground with my feet elevated on the bench. I hold the position, imagining pools of blood and swelling rushing from my toes and pads of feet and calves and knees, flowing towards my heart; towards the mothership.

A bird came very near. The wind blows. There is cloud coverage. It is cooling.

The river was beautifully vocal.

I continued on.

Cows.

I watched them. They watched me

They walked away. I walked away. We both turned back to watch each other walk away.

I searched and searched but I could not find the listed spring, in the darkness. It being late August, it was very likely dry anyway. Besides, the nearby campsite did not look all too appealing. Roadways flanked each side.

I carried on. I came to a stream in about 1/2 a mile. Oh, what joy!

I looked around for a flat space nearby. I did not anticipate rain, I planned to star-camp.

I set myself up amongst twigs and leaves and duff and fallen trees.

I could hear the small things buroughing, and wading their little feelers through the forest floor; or it could be all my micro movements sending ripples through my down and water-resistant fabrics.

I left my sleeping bag partially open and my puffy unzipped. It was a warm night.

Oh what a weightless fluffy delight my sleeping bag had transformed to after a proper wash and dry!

I took two 25mg Benadryl. I settled in. I fear spiders more than I had before.

I read Almost Haiku #10 for the first time. It was a poem from the dear woman I met in Metaline Falls. The poem caused me to well with emotion.

It gives me the hope and serenity I need as October nears.