Wild Country Found

Dolly Vista Trail Camp (2532) to Cloudy Pass Junction (mile 2552, plus 6 miles to Hart Lake on the Holden Fire)

The scent of fire smoke wafts up from the valley floor rousing me from sleep. Outside the tent I can see small flares burning in the dark, the occasional tree igniting then burning a harsh orange so at odds with the blue night.

Later, when Starman’s alarm chimes time to hike we find that we are once again, perhaps forever and always, the last people in camp. Our plan to camp on this ridge in an effort to see how the fires are developing has proven moot. An ugly brown orange purple smoke blankets the hills and valleys below us, catching the first rays from the rising sun. There is no way for us to know what is happening, though somewhat comically the largest fire burning on Flower Dome is far enough from the trail that we need not worry about it. However, the small whisps of smoke that could be seen burning along Middle Ridge are right above the trail. Probably. But of course now we can’t tell, so it’s time to hike. Hike right down into the smokey mess.

During the nine mile descent towards the Suiattle River we discuss what we can or could or should do if the fire is too close to the trail. Our discussion turns round and round with no new information and no way to gain any more. If we need to bail we could take a side trail down to a remote campground where there might be cars who could take us the roughly 30 miles to highway 20, maybe. But then we’d be a days worth of hitching from our passports and resupply box. So that’s not good, but neither is walking towards an active forest fire. Maybe there will be a ranger at the bridge with information. But maybe they don’t no yet if nobody has reported this. But maybe. But maybe not. Around and around we go as the trail takes us down to the Suiattle River. It’s a maddening frustrating pattern of discussion with no way out except silence or a change of topic.

At the bridge there is no ranger, but there is a note from Road Runner and Autopilot saying they’ve got no new news. Well, that’s better than nothing but certainly less than ideal. Then, the thing we’ve all been waiting for happens! A southbounder! Then another! Both of whom respond “what fire?” And that’s going to have to be good enough. With smoke itching my throat we begin a 4,000 foot climb towards Cloudy Pass, never seeing or hearing the fire that we assume to be on the ridge we’re climbing. This is literally the best we could have hoped for, as the easiest way out is through.

I am tired, more from the hours of circular discussion and worry than from the climb. Having grown so accustomed to the era of instant Google information it feels bizzare to be thrust backwards to a time where I cannot learn things in an instant. As so many of these moments have done, this experience gives me great respect for those who hiked this trail 20 or even 50 years ago when the national scenic trail system was proposed.

We crest Cloudy Pass via a convoluted and steep few miles. And as if Washington is looking to soothe us after a morning of stress, she puts on her best face for us. Mountains unlike any I have ever seen glow pink as the sinking sun shoots through the smoke overhead. Rivers drop thousands of feet in a series of fanning waterfalls to become turquoise lakes nestled in deep valleys. This section has been everything I wanted Washington to be, and inexpressibly more.

Campsite 2515 to campsite at mile Dolly Vista Trail Camp (2532)

The tent is covered in cold condensation when I wake. Our little camp hidden next to a rushing creek is well secluded from the morning sun whose rays cannot penetrate the chill. Even after an unusually long pack up time, during which we work to delay the inevitable moment when we must leave our warm bubble and venture outside, it is still cold. I wait until the absolute last minute before stripping off my puffy jacket, packing it away in a hurry and starting to hike before l can fully appreciate how cold my arms are.

However, immediately the trail begins to climb. Winding through thick forests below the massive jagged shoulders of Glacier Peak. Below the trees roll towards a precipice and drop sharply from view, above they cede to the granite and snow and sky. The world is two toned, green on bottom, grey blue on top. Smoke from wildfires has blown in on the morning breeze, dulling our views and smudging the pale peaks into the sky. We climb steeply up and over our first ridge of the day on trail that tilts towards the valley floor as though wishing us to slide right off and down into the dark forest. Our first climb deposits us at a small creek. Rushing over bright green moss and achingly cold against my fingers as I filter water. With sudden ferocity the sun blasts from around the ridge, flooding the creek with light and vaporizing morning dew instantaneously into humidity.

We climb again. And again. Up towards the sky where the trees cannot grow and even the green grass is now tinged with the yellow of oncoming fall. From on high the skyline in all directions is crowded with broken grey teeth of mountains. We are nothing more than small mammals standing in the center of a giant earthen maw waiting to snap closed and swallow us whole. The land here is beautiful in a way that rings of eons of cold, ice, and the grinding of rock and water until the earth is worn away into shattered spires and deep chasms.

With no where left to go we drop into one of these chasms. Winding down down down to a river of milky white which carries the smallest bits of mountain down towards the sea in the slow unrelenting manner that it has always shaped this land. And when there is no more down to be had we again look briefly towards the sky and climb into the forest on a trail that marches this way and that. Switchbacking relentlessly until time and distance fall out of relation to each other. The river grows smaller and smaller below us, but the sky is ever as big, the trees ever as grand, and looking up only serves to tell us that we have a long way to go. So I chose not to look, only to walk with slow measured steps until the ground tilts the other way at last. And my legs unspool underneath me. I am a rag doll, a puppet with floppy limbs and joints made of string ambling along the downhill like learning to walk again. Finally coming to rest beside a happy steam rushing down in the warm afternoon air, a joyous burbling sound. Food and drink, simple sweet pleasure before the going.

It hurts to move again, as it almost always does. But I prod myself to my feet, heading towards the horizon where a plume of white mars the great blue sky. What is that now? With so many kinds of light trapped in deep valleys or else ricocheting from rock and snow, what is that smear which eats away at the sky?

A fire. A new one by the looks of it. With another angry friend burning nearby. We stand with Autopilot and Roadrunner for a long time looking at maps and compass trying to decipher the squiggles of topography and if that fire is burning right in our path. The plan to hike down into another dark valley is put on hold and in the end seven of us huddle on a ridge top campsite and watch the fire spread across the hillside. Two valleys over and yet no airplanes. Does anybody other than us know about this fire? Who is there to relay this information to the proper parties if not us, so removed from contact with the outside world as we are now?

The setting sun darkens the sky, concealing the jagged teeth of mountains that surround us on all sides. What to do, what to do, what to do. Asking is all we can do as bright red flares from across the valley, piercing through the smoke which we can see but not yet smell. It is beautiful in its own brutal way.

Sally Ann Lake (mile 2494) to campsite 2515

If you’ve failed to pick up on the subtle clue I left in the post title, I very much dislike dealing with my period on trail. Periods in general are something that almost nobody was talking about when I researched the trail. But let’s face it, for most people who have a period, a five month hike will require you to deal with it at least five times. If you’re someone who doesn’t have a period, I’d still encourage you to read on, since half the population deals with this on a monthly basis for a significant part of their lives; read: around 40 years. And, if your sex ed was anything like mine, it spent an uneven amount of time focused on the male body, so perhaps you’ll learn something, or at the very least develop a little sympathy.

Here’s why I’m riding the struggle bus today:

1. I’m super hungry in the week before my period, this sometimes extends to the first day as well, which can be a real drag if I’ve forgotten to pack out extra food.

2. The first day of my period I am so tired. All of the tired. Very very tired. Unfortunately I still have to get in a full day’s hiking, instead of a full days lounging around watching television.

3. Have you ever dealt with cleaning a menstrual cup? It’s not the best even when you have a private bathroom and clean running water. However when you need to dig a cathole every time you need to empty your cup (read: several times a day) and you only have the water in your bottles to clean up with, the struggle for hygiene is exacerbated. Oh and it takes forever to dig said cathole ever time I baño. If you’re a tampon user on the other hand, now you’ve got to pack those both in and out. I hope you brought enough!

4. Hiking uphill with cramps is in fact a torture method developed by Satan himself. Thanks, Satan.

5. Sometimes my period is right on time. Sometimes, especially after a very difficult section, it’s a few days late. But who doesn’t love a little free bleeding spontaneity in their lives?

6. Not to sound like an absolute cliche, but yes being on my period can royally screw with my hormones. Doing any sort of aerobic exercise is hard verging on impossible when I’m crying. And why am I crying? Oh because Hedwig just died in HP7, and now I’m sniffling mess facing a 1,200 foot climb at the end of the day.

What about you? Do any of my period having humans have tips to share for how they function on the trail? Or funny stories to tell? I wanna hear ’em!

Janus Lake (mile 2474) to Sally Ann Lake (mile 2494)

There is a time when the tail begins to feel different. That time is right around four in the afternoon. The sun has fallen from it’s zenith and with the benefit of extra atmosphere shines a warm light across the world. Grey bottomed clouds begin to cluster in the sky. By the time the earth has gone dark for the day these clouds will have pulled up close together to form a thick blanket, obscuring the stars from view, muffling all sounds and ushering us to sleep. But for now they float benignly, casting shadows upon the ground and giving depth to the vast glacial valleys that stretch into the distance whereupon they become snow capped peaks.

This time of day, this aptly named golden hour, if called so more for it’s soothing light than the actual amount of time it weaves magic into the very being of everything it touches, has begun to creep earlier into the day. Where as previously we had to hike well into the evening hours to experience it, now we are treated to this light show shortly after lunch. Meaning much of our afternoon and time in camp is spent in a sort of real time nostalgia. For it is nearly impossible to feel anything but poignant sense of the passing of time. And on the light comes the wind of evening, bringing with it the biting chill of fall. It is the same wind that during my childhood signaled the end of summer and the impending start of school.

This hike, has in so many ways felt like an extended summer vacation. So alike my childhood when I would spend countless hours outside, exploring the trails and lakes near my home while my skin baked into a dark golden brown. And so too like my childhood, I have begun to look forward to fall. If not for the start of the school year but for the start of new things. When I was a child I always found myself looking forward to the start of school. Those long summer days which at first seemed full of endless promise had spooled out around me, filled with adventures great and small. Yet, by the last weeks I had grown accustomed to long bike rides and days spent jumping from makeshift roap swings into too-shallow lakes. As hard as we might try, it is nearly impossible to appreciate what we have all of the time. Summer is a delight because there is winter. Education, learning, challenge is enjoyable because of the freedom and boredom of the summer. I crave the contrast, the newness, the change. All of which are coming whether I want them or not. So for the time being I will revel in the long warm light of these last precious days of summer knowing that when they are gone I’ll feel foolish for ever wanting anything else.

Stevens Pass (mile 2464) to Janus Lake (mile 2474)

Starman and I are sitting in the back of Garbo’s Subaru as she and Connor whisk us back to the trail. We are all four of us showered and laundered, deodorant and shampoo mingle pleasantly in my nose. I wonder how quickly after the trail I’ll stop noticing how good non hikers smell. How many days after leaving the trail will it take for the smell of fabric softener to no longer send me until odorous fits of delight. All this weekend, while I watched an adorable young couple exchange their vows and then danced into the night surrounded by Starman’s college friends, I marveled at how many ways there are for people to smell good.

We are dropped at the base of the Stevens Pass ski area, where we will climb 10 miles out of a valley on this half day. The long labor day weekend means that the trail is full of day hikers and weekend backpackers streaming back to their cars. Clothes bright and unbleached by the sun, wafting smells of artificial pine, vanilla, and clean laundry. This afternoon the trail is a two lane highway and we are forced to stop time and again to allow folks to pass. I am grateful for the numerous breaks, it is a perfectly warm but not too hot late summers day and I am content to stand along the side of the trail and soak in the day. Also my pack is irrationally heavy and hiking uphill is a real struggle.

For the last two sections I have been cutting it very fine on food. And you know what? It sucks. Going to sleep and waking up in the middle of the night hungry, it sucks. Rationing food at every meal, it sucks. Drinking coffee at lunch breaks to curb your appetite, it sucks. Pushing miles on the last day because both you and your partner are going to either be really hungry or completely out of food, yep it sucks! But now we are down to our last two sections on this entire trail and I’m not going to let them suck. So my pack is really heavy with almost six days of food crammed into it. Honestly, I’ve probably over packed on food but #YOLOSYMAWHGS (you only live once so you might as well have good snacks.)

In thru hiking it seems nearly impossible to avoid some level of discomfort. After the infamous hiker hunger has set in the choice is between being hungry and having a light pack, or having enough food and a heavy pack. It’s about finding the discomfort you’re willing to deal with. And in my case I’m really strong but kind of a jerk when I get hangry, so extra snacks and a heavy pack it is.

Double zero at Stevens Pass (mile 2464) for a wedding, no hiking.

The border is open! I repeat, the border is open! There is a PCTA approved alternate to the Canadian border and it is again legal to walk into Canada. This is big news. Very big. For the previous two weeks we have been closing in on the final miles of this hike, down to under 200 left. Which at this point in the hike feels undeniably achievable. I have walked so many miles and days and through pairs of shoes and packets of oatmeal that I don’t even enjoy eating, past innumerable trees and lakes and some very nice mountains. At this point, I would crawl myself to Canada with my face. I would, no doubt.

But as we have talked to the many day hikers out enjoying the last throws of summer, there has been a tinge of frustration on our part. People are eager to congratulate us on being so close to completing our goal not knowing that the final miles were closed to due to fire. And that we were planning a massive logistical u-turn through Vancouver in order to be able to snap that finishers photo at the northern terminus. It always felt too cumbersome to explain the long-winded details of both the closure and our plans. So for the last weeks we have been simply accepting these strangers praise all the while knowing that the act of walking into Canada was to be denied to us. That of the three border crossing on this entire 2,650 mile trail, we would miss two due to forest fire closures.

That is until Friday.

But of course it’s not that simple.

As convoluted and absurd as our previous plan to touch the monument was. The changing of facts so close to the end is now another thing to contend with. On trail, Starman and I represent a continuously moving target of gear, food, and now paperwork needs. Needs that must be often be fulfilled in adherence to the hours of the United States Postal Service. Which is to say it can be a bit of a craps shoot.

When the border reopened on September 1, it put into motion a series of emails, phone calls, and text messages as we arrange for packages to be shipped to the tiny village of Stehekin which sits nestled along the shores of Lake Chalan, accessible by only foot, water plane, or boat. Thank goodness for understanding friends and family. This trail which can seem so solitary in nature would in fact be incomprehensibly more challenging without helpful people who are willing to make last minute trips to the post office on your behalf, and store your stuff, and kindly send or bring you gluten free snacks.

After having changed shipping addresses and food boxes, after rescheduling job start dates, comparing rental car prices, we’re all going back to plan A. Except now plan A is to be done on a tight timeline because you can’t have things be too easy. Where would be in the fun in that?

Campsite at mile 2443 to Stevens Pass (mile 2464)

I wake to low, heavy skies and the patter of light mist coating the tent. Fall in the Pacific Northwest is making another appearance. The weather has been like those whirling picture toys from childhood with a bird on one side and a cage on another which, when spun very fast trick the eye into combining the two images in to one. A bird and a cage becomes a bird in a cage. The days in Washington flash one against the other, combining into a single yet disperate image in my mind. One day the weather is cool drizzling fall, cloudy forests with rain clinging to leaves like tiny beads of glass. The next, warm with glorious sun and shimmering blue skies.

Today the weather has spun and landed on fall. We pack the tent away wet and set out in rain jackets thrown on against the cold more than the actual wet. I delight in how the world looks in this light. A light grey sky sits right down in the trees, obscuring the tops of ridges and rock faces, sending a gentle diffuse light towards the forest floor. Shadows are softened, their sharp edges all smoothed out in order to wrap sweetly around every rock, tree and drooping moss. With a sky of almost grey white the greens of the earth are all the more vibrant as though screaming we are alive! A last hurrah from the growing season perhaps.

The cool drizzle and chill wind follows us into town and into the night. Though the forecast for tomorrow calls for sun, summer is locked in a losing annual battle against the coming cold and darkness. Every step north is a step into the arms of autumn. We have migrated north, from days of unrelenting heat into days of a copycat sun who cannot completely mask the power of the breeze that pulls my body heat away during every break. Rain flies and down jackets are making their first appearances in weeks and on evenings like this one I am grateful to have a hotel around me instead of only nylon and down.

Campsite at mile 2425 to campsite at mile 2443

Something yellow catches my eye and I slow to a stop in the middle of the trail. My eyes, now so accustomed to the natural world can immediately pick out anything unnatural. Usually this is small bits of trash accidentally left by a hiker, or occasionally forgotten gear. Today, it’s a yellow gummy bear. Stooping to pick it up I show the gummy to Starman, asking if I should eat it. This is not the first forlorn gummy bear that I’ve jokingly proposed that I eat; the previous one being found bobbing along the sandy bottom of our last water source. However, in both situations Starman has vehemently vetoed my proposed found snackage. Laughing I lob the gummy into the woods whereupon it’s vibrant yellow is lost in a sea of green. This prompts a discussion about what we are most looking forward to eating in town.

I am always amazed by how quickly the energy provided by town food fades from my system, leaving legs straining on the steep climbs of Washington. Only three days from town and already both Starman and myself have begun to fantasize about getting to town. Starman says “no more pizza, it’s been nothing but disappointing lately.” I agree, adding “and nothing that qualifies as ‘American’ food. I think I’ve had enough burgers to last a lifetime.” In this way we banter back and forth up the biggest climb of the day. Good sticky rice. Crisp vegetables. Peanut sauce. Cucumber and watermelon! BBQ. Orange chicken – Starman is ever true to his Midwestern roots.

When we arrive at the top of the pass, Cathedral Peak rises above us and down below in the valley sits an entirely new world. One that has a blustering cool breeze running through the long valley, whisking away the smoke and returning the color and detail to the earth. What a difference. What an incomparable difference to be granted the views for which this tail is known. Hiking through smoke and trees for days on end with barely a nice rocky pile to look at, it is demoralizing. There is no other word for it. The hiker phrase “I do it for the views” has never felt so accurate as I look down into the valley below our perch. In front of me stretches an vast skyline of unknown peaks, rivers, and woods. What would I see if I wandered away from this trail and into these lands. I’ll save it for another day, after the trail. I know that for once there is little urgency with which I need to explore these mountains. Washington, as it has said with some arguable validity, is the state in which I am now a resident. Being home never looked so inviting.

Campsite at mile 2408 to campsite at mile 2425

I wake disappointed to find the tent walls beginning to lighten with the first signs of dawn and my bladder demanding the first pee of the day. Feeling as though I’ve been asleep for only a few hours I begrudgingly pull myself from the tent to answer the call of nature. It is outside that I discover what I had mistaken for an early morning sun is actually the moon and it is still the middle of the night. Hallelujah! I relieve myself and dive back into my sleeping bag, pulling my hat down low over my eyes and drifting back to sleep.

When I finally pull my hat from my eyes it is fully light outside the tent. My phone reads 6:58am and Starman is still deeply asleep. I attempt to rouse him, cajole him into moving until finally I am so sick of sounding like a frustrated mother pleading with her adolescent child that I relent and we spend the next few hours packing in slow motion. Finally beginning to walk at 11am, by body already telling me it’s almost lunch time, that we should have done 10 miles by now. But no. I have repeatedly said that Starman’s laxidasical morning pace is an argument that is not worth having. Yet, as we get on the trail late for the umpteenth time with a minimum hour and a half to pack up now the norm, I wonder if perhaps it was an argument worth having. After more than five months on trail the fateful day where we could get on the trail with any amount of expediency has never arrived. Nor, it would seem, have I been able to adjust to Starman’s schedule. But what is there to be done about it now.

The day passes in a series of tree lined climbs and breathtaking views. Massive grey faces of rock soar into the sky, cut through with wide glacial swaths. Raging waterfalls made minuscule through the wonders of distance and space zipper towards the valley floor where they blossom into fathomless lakes and tumbling rivers. The weekend rains have given up their tenuous grasp on the sky and already smoke from wildfires is blowing into the valleys. Smearing and smudging the faces of these exquisite peaks and bringing with it the white skies and artificially warm light to which we have become accustomed.

However today the passage of the sun overhead grates on me. Each time I look at my maps we are not as close to camp as I hoped. My body is out of synch with this late start and I cannot conceal my frustration. I know that once we have arrived in camp and performed the daily litany of chores we will retire to the tent where Starman will have an hour to relax by watching television on his phone. Meanwhile I will have an hour or two of work writing and editing photos. Knowing that if I don’t keep on top of this daily workload it will expand to consume any down time I may get next time we’re in town.

Today it all seems too much and I find myself crying into my evening mac and cheese, feeling all the dumber knowing that this is a self imposed chore. Feeling all the more frustrated as I think about our remaining days, yes just days now, on the trail and wondering if this infernal blog will ever be good for anything besides reducing the amount of sleep I get. Then trying frantically to come up with something else to write, because who wants to read a blog in which the writer does nothing but complain. Finally, I abandon the whole thing as a lost cause and hope that upon proofreading this post later I don’t resent myself for not putting more effort in, for not writing something more beautiful.

Snoqualmie Pass (mile 2393) to campsite at mile 2408

The thing about days like today is that you don’t get many of them. Even on a trip of this length – or perhaps especially on a trip of this length where one walks many miles of terrain that weekend hikers won’t bother with – you’ll only have a handful of truly spectacular days.

Today was truly spectacular.

We left Snoqualmie pass under drizzling grey skies. Too warm to wear a rain jacket, but too chilly without one so we compromise by hiking really fast. It’s 10am and there was no reason to be on the trail earlier. Why get up early to hike in the rain when you could just as easily not. Actually it is substantially easier to not get up early and hike in the rain. Furthermore, Starman and I are on a schedule of forced leisure. With a wedding on September 1st and only 71 miles between us and where we’ll need to get off to hitch to the venue, there is no need to rush and no advantage to getting there early. So you see, it would have been irresponsible to get up early and hike in the rain, wasteful of a perfect lazy morning.

The first four miles of the day feel like the opening scene to an episode of The X Files. All trees shrouded in mist, with a weak silver sun slicing through like a landing UFO. This is the sort of weather people get anally probed in. Luckily, no alien life forms come for us and soon we can see the clouds breaking apart overhead. Sharp rays of sunshine blast into the understory vaporizing the dew into swirling motes of fog.

Then the entire world explodes.

The sky is a riotously cheerful blue, chock full of the sorts of puffy white clouds Bob Ross would be proud of. An undulating breeze ruffles the tall grass and wild flowers throw their hands in the air as though celebrating the first day of spring. The world is a good natured snow globe of sunshine and warmth shaken by some small child to send hikers and runners streaming past us on the regular. As though everyone has recognized the gift that today is and rushed into the open arms of the mountains to celebrate.

All day we walk and stop, walk and stop as just around the bend another breathtaking vista slides into view. I am strong and the air is cool enough that I don’t sweat as the trail climbs 5,600 feet straight up into the open sky with her bright open face shining down on us. Below the trail pika chirp hypnotic and big wooly marmots whistle to one another. The marmots in this area are larger, with big manes of thick fur around their necks, so different from their California cousins. These northern marmots seem to say to us: enjoy the sun now you furless humans, for winter is on its way bringing snow and cold and dark to these lands. But not today. For today we scamper through the most perfect of days.

Though the marmots warning of coming winter can be felt in other ways. By four in the afternoon we are rounding the bend into camp and already the sun is growing long and warm. Remember when it was light until 10pm? I ask myself, what happened to those endless days? Without the warm haze of smoke the late afternoon sun is all the more apparent, the warmth of evening all the less artificial. And for the first time in a long while we throw the rain fly on the tent as we make camp. Fall is coming says the wind. Winter is coming says the marmot. And so we listen.