Onward
Visualize having it
Devise a plan; Write it down in detail
Say no to anything that gets in the way
---author unknown
I had thought over every thought at least five times. I was running out of thoughts. I had redesigned my pack, designed new tents, clothes, and sleeping systems. I asked Rainmaker what thoughts occupied his mind. He replied that he was humming tunes. It had been a long time since I heard any tunes, but decided to hum what I could.
One day while hiking I noticed a lot of frogs on the trail. One even jumped out in front of me, hitting my pole, and bouncing off. Then he hopped away. A hit and run frog. There ought to be a law.
After crossing several water sources, we met three people heading south, towards us. A man in a white dress shirt (how odd), carrying topography maps, stopped and asked, “Do you know of any place these folks could camp with water?” He gestured towards the older couple. “Do you have any water you can spare? Is there any water ahead?” There was supposed to be a spring just off the trail, which they should have just passed. Strange they should be asking us for water. When we questioned them, they said it was dry. Indicating the spring we meant on the topography map, they warned us saying “No, it’s dry. There is no water in this whole stretch.” I was incredulous, just couldn’t imagine. I told them of the water we’d passed, not to worry, that although we had none with us to spare, they would surely have water to drink soon.
David and I hiked about 15 minutes and distinctly heard the flowing spring on our right, exactly where it was supposed to be. Minutes later, we came upon several campsites, with definite trails leading downward, obvious signs to a long distance hiker of water nearby. At the end of a well-worn path was a large spring, flowing happily along, with all the water and flowers one could wish for.
These people brought themselves out here without the ability to find water. Very dangerous. Listening, quietness, and observation, will get you what you need, in almost all instances.
August 16
th
became a very frustrating day filled with a lot of climbing, beautiful views, and rugged terrain in the Goat Rocks Wilderness. We reached the Packwood Glacier, but the tread seemed to have disappeared. With the actual trail obliterated by rockslides, we tried crossing the scree field that was below it. Our eyes were fixed on the trail, which snaked up the other side. Rainmaker was taking his time, choosing his footing carefully. I had been hurrying ahead, anxious to be done with this off-trail scrambling, each step sending rocks cascading into the void. Being so close to getting back on the actual treadway, I didn’t want to give up, yet the slope was becoming quite treacherous. Suddenly, Rainmaker called for me to turn back. All along, it had been iffy. I kept hearing noises from the mountain itself. The glacier above me seemed to be groaning, shifting, and adjusting to the summer sun. I glanced back at my partner, just in time to see a rockslide hurling down, barely missing him. I think that’s when he had enough.
An alternate route over Old Snowy Mountain was the only option. My whole body screamed against the injustice of having to climb, when the data sheet said we were done with that for the day. The treadway down from Old Snowy was loose scree, and then began the undulations of the crest walk, as fog rolled in. I wasn’t happy, and Rainmaker knew it. Silently, I was punishing him for making me turn back. I rebelled at admitting he was right.
Later, I told him how badly I had been sliding, watching the rocks I had dislodged go tumbling into the abyss. It would have been an absolutely gorgeous ridge walk had it not turned cold and windy, with night pressing us.
Finally, with partial views opening through the fog of high mountains and deep valleys, the trail descended to Elk Pass, and we camped near glacier melt streams in a sweet campsite, above 6600 ft. in elevation. For supper, I had a couple of cookies, a granola bar and glass of instant milk, then I fell asleep.
As we neared Canada, the weather cooled remarkably. I learned that rocks make a poor pot support in cold weather. They soak up all the heat the fuel puts forth. Tent stakes were proving workable, in spite of rainy weather. Again, I had mailed my esbit stove ahead, as I strove to lighten my pack. One who refuses to learn from history is doomed to repeat it. Not sure if an ultralighter said that, but they should have.
One night we set up camp just before another deluge started. I couldn’t get my stakes into the rocky ground anywhere, to serve as a pot support. In spite of Rainmaker’s offers, I refused to let him boil water for me. Just something about independence, pride, and ego. Finally, in desperation, I lay my hiking poles on the ground, side by side. With the metal ends just 2 inches apart, I placed a hexamine tablet between them on a piece of aluminum foil and lit it. The metal ends of my hiking poles became my pot support, while my partner laughed good-naturedly in disbelief. “Is that rubber I smell burning?” he asked. “Yeah, it’s the snow basket gaskets,” I replied.
The cry of an eagle or red tailed hawk is a beautiful sound, heard often in northern Washington. While climbing a steep trail, I realized how special it was to be out here. I raised my arms wide to embrace it all, looking skyward, being truly a part of this mountain.
How will I ever go back to that job at the hospital? I am addicted to the free life, where my energy is its own reward.
Up in the heights I walk the ridge,
Looked way below, and saw the bridge.
I crossed that log this early morning
In spite of all day hiker warnings.
Wind blowing softly through my hair,
An eagle cries, I’ll soon be there.
Never be tame again.
The Waptus River is wide, with many established campsites near the bridge. We had a relaxing supper, and wrote in our journals. Then, I took two extra strength Tylenol, zipped myself snug in my sleeping bag, inside the tent, and slept very soundly. Sometime before midnight, Rainmaker mentioned that “some damn mouse” ran across his arm. Yawn, yeah, ok. I turned over and resumed my deep sleep. Suddenly, it was very real. I sat up quickly around 2 a.m. and yelped, “A Mouse!!” It seemed as though one had just ran past my head.
Like a cougar, Rainmaker all at once and without a word, in three seconds flat flipped the flashlight on, tracked that mouse, located it next to his Therma Rest and beat it to death with his fist. He then unzipped the door and flung that sorry carcass outside by the tail. He zipped up the door, and lay back down. No swearing, no yelling, just pure action. Heavens! So that’s how it’s done! I could only lay there in total admiration.
That mouse must have been instinctively challenged. He had chewed a hole through the mesh at the foot of the tent, dropped down onto my food bag, and ran up to our heads to see if we were awake. Now he is smashed flatter than an ultralighter's sleeping bag. If I had been him, I’d have munched myself sick, then made a break for it at first light. One night some critter stole two wads of my toilet paper I kept in my shoe just outside the tent door, for night trips. I was indignant; there’s not an endless supply! I decided I would have to start sleeping with it, too.
I love it when the trail goes right through a town, or so close it’s within walking distance. Otherwise, one must hitch hike. I’ve noticed it’s never the people with the nice cars, the money or the space that give hikers a ride. It’s invariably someone with an old car, having to move book bags, dogs, newspapers, taco chips, fast food wrappers and themselves over to make room. May all their kindness return to them a hundredfold. May gifts come their way, and sunshine be their portion. Those pushing a brand new two-ton vehicle through life, usually traveling alone, may they need a ride someday, and stand helplessly hoping.
Skycomish is a dying town. Only one motel remained in business in the year 2001. Seventy-Three dollars for a tiny room is high priced. However, it did have a microwave and small refrigerator, coffee pot and lots of TV channels. No laundry facilities. No, they couldn’t let us use the motel washing machine for our wet and muddy gear. The manager said we should ask a local person to do our laundry for us. Excuse Me? Fine. I washed everything in the tub, hanging it to dry all around our room. The owner thought a load of wash would be hard on his septic tank. How about 2 bathtubs of hot water to wash with, and a couple more for rinsing? We left with cleaner clothes. It's all relative anyway. We have a saying, Rainmaker and I. It's not actual dirt unless it’s real shit. I mean that literally, like horse, cow, bear, fox, or human shit. That’s dirt.
Everything in this town seemed to be closed, or for sale. The deli was for sale. The one restaurant was for sale. They kept whatever hours suited them. When I complained to another hiker that the diner closed unexpectedly at 2:00 one afternoon, he replied, “Well, then, you were lucky!” That hiker had managed to get a meal there the day before. So, we shopped at the Chevron mini-mart, bought food sufficient for a good resupply, and food for our meals, which we cooked in our motel.
Rainmaker had his fleece bag liner sent to him here. I have needed mine and was relieved knowing he would be warmer. We could see our breath in the tent at night, wind chill must be hovering around 20 degrees.
Fire Creek Pass I believe to be the loveliest place on the entire Pacific Crest Trail. It was certainly my favorite. The evening sunshine brought out the golden hues of the fall colors and the ripe blueberries. The grade was gentle, the mood sublime. Perfect contentment, perfect harmony, and perfect companionship. We stopped and took several photos, all the while knowing it would never suffice. Lingering because we knew this hiking season would soon be finished.
Stehekin would be our last resupply. We were very happy to reach this town, nestled there in the mountains with only eleven miles of connecting road and a daily ferry giving this secluded village access to the outside world.
There were many hikers in this tiny village. Rainmaker and I quickly registered at the visitor center for the last free camping spot across the street. Laundry was done in the same building with the free showers. Up the street, many hikers were hanging out on the front deck of the only restaurant. Anyone who wanted to eat supper there must register early in the day. By the time we had our camp set up and showered, the store and restaurant were both closed. At 8:00 pm, everyone was on their own. Eating the last scraps from our food bags, we planned to do ungodly damage to the breakfast buffet, served in the morning, promptly at 7:30 a.m.
September Eleventh
We woke to a smoky valley. The wild fires were not yet extinguished. During the night, the fires gained the upper hand because darkness called in the fighters. Starving, we dressed and started walking down the main road to the restaurant for breakfast. Many of my friends were leaving for the trail as soon as they finished their meal. I wanted Rainmaker to meet them, especially Dell, a sixty-year-old retired biologist who ran one hundred mile ultra marathons. John and his dog Cyclone were also walking down the road to breakfast. He waited for us to catch up, then asked incredulously, “Did you hear? A ranger just told me the radio said that four planes have crashed. One into the Pentagon. Both World Trade Center towers are gone. The other one, I think, into the White House.”
Disbelief, anxiety, and confusion followed us into the restaurant where twelve of us were seated at two long tables. The waiter told us what little he knew about the situation. In this remote town, radio reports were all they had. It was 7:30 Pacific time, 10:30 New York time.
The buffet included scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, pancakes, fruit, milk, oatmeal, juice and coffee. While we ate, rumors philosophies and theories, from those once united by a common love, now divided us. Some political discussion surfaced, and a hiker angrily left the table. Photos were taken, good-byes and best of luck extended to friends we would probably never see again. There remained just 89 miles left to the Canadian border. Only days.
Finally stuffed, and the buffet emptied, we walked next door to the store to supplement our drop box resupply. Ten people stood around listening intently to the radio turned up for customers and employees alike. From the streets of Manhattan directly to backwoods Stehekin, reports came live, transmitting the agony and fear. One woman was crying, telling listeners around the world of the people she saw, even while she spoke, jumping to their deaths. Desperate in their hopelessness, from the upper windows of the World Trade Center people flung themselves towards the pavement. Everyone was fleeing, all of lower Manhattan being evacuated, and the smoke, incredible suffocating smoke was everywhere.
My god, I thought, this is real. This is America. The country was in readiness, our politicians were telling us. We were in an advanced state of emergency. And the question on everyone’s tongue “Who are these terrorists?” We are told the Mexican and Canadian borders are closed. No planes are flying; all have been grounded until further notice.
Nothing made sense. A sick feeling came over me. I must get some fresh air. I must do something that makes sense. Rainmaker remains listening while I leave the store to work on my resupply. Not once do we consider not crossing that border. We have come too far, suffered too much, been out here too long. Neither Rainmaker, nor I, will turn back now.
My magic trail spoon disappeared. I carried that same spoon with me since the Lassen Park stream crossing, where I found it last year by the river’s edge. I looked high and low, through every stuff sack, and every corner of our tent. I went over the campground five times, checked the bear box, and retraced my steps, over and over. Then, I chided myself. Get real. People have lost their lives today, and you are mourning the loss of a spoon.