It was by far the worst day on trail. I. Was. Miserable. On a terribly dreary day I found myself shivering in the cold rain, sliding in the mud, climbing over, under, and around dozens of fallen trees, getting soaked through from wet bushes crowding the trail, and struggling up endless hills. In short, this section sucked. The misery was punctuated by the fact that I had to keep going through it all. I couldn't stop early or wait for a better day, for missing my daily mileage quota meant missing Canada. Time stress held me tight in its grip, and the knowledge that I had only five days to hike a bit over 150 miles through a tough section was overwhelming. It was a frantic push to the end, and within the rush to the finish lay unfulfilled the purpose for hiking. I no longer was having fun. I was no longer getting the experience I wanted. I hated Washington. I hated the PCT. I hated thruhiking.
Moments of beauty
Two weeks ago I was happy to hike forever. Now, I was beyond ready to be done. It had become a forced chore-- get up early, walk all day and into the night just to get the miles done, all the while passing up incredible opportunities and wonderful places. Given a chance to escape, I would have taken it. I finally understood how all those who quit felt. Canada just didn't matter enough. I fiercely wished I could just slow down and enjoy the last few days and desperately looked for a way out, for a way I could still skip ahead and finish easily. I asked some hunters for a map. Studying it carefully, it didn't tell me what I wanted to see. I was deep in wilderness. If I wanted to get out, I had to move forward.
As I struggled through the bleak day, thoughts about time and mileage sent me through a rainbow of emotions. Indecisiveness of how hard to push myself gave way to disappointment of the fact I would finish alone. Disappointment gave way to frustration of the situation which gave way to regret that I hadn't skipped this section or gone faster earlier. Regret gave way to anger at everything. Anger gave way to depression, which gave way to silent resolve and acceptance.
The 150 mile mark. 150 miles to go. I cried with relief.
I was rewarded with lifting clouds and a lovely view at the end of the day. I camped by the bluest pond I had ever seen. Rain poured steadily in the 35-40 degree temps. I slept well but woke often, warm and snug in my sleeping bag as the rain pattered outside and the wind whipped my rain fly around.
(to the tune of Jingle Bells)
Thru-hike-ing, P-C-T,
Canada all the way
How I hate, Thru-hike-ing
On a cold, wet, snow-y daaaaay.
I was proud of myself for making moves at 5:45am. I had been smart enough to wring out my drenched socks and sleep with them in my sleeping bag, so at least they were warm (if a bit damp), but the moment I slid my feet into my cold shoes the heat was sucked out of them. They stayed numb all morning. It had started sprinkling again, but despite the worsening conditions I was in a much better mood than the previous day.
I managed to escape into an audiobook for the first ten miles until the weather grabbed my attention. I had climbed to 6,000 feet and the temperature was ten degrees colder than the valley below. The rain had turned into a slushy snow and gathered on the bushes crowding the trail. My feet, which had finally warmed up, grew cold and numb as they got wet from unavoidable puddles. Snow-slush clung to my shoes. I hiked on nub-feet as I tried to enjoy the winter scenery. If I detached myself from the discomfort, I found it was quite peaceful. The snow fluttered against the dark evergreen trees while a enormous white mountain rose from the fog.
But my feet-- they were not good. Thankfully I could still wiggle my toes. However, they would be numb for a while, then they would tingle and stab with pain for a step or two, then they would simply feel cold. After a while they felt like icicles; I was sure I could snap one off. I wasn't positive how the beginning stages of frostbite felt, but I was certain if I didn't do something soon I would have it. I needed to get off the mountain, that was clear. But the trail was stubborn, following an exposed and high path for a few miles.
Treeline. I saw a man huddled under a tree, nursing a tiny fire. A single flame licked the matches and a curl of smoke drifted up. "That's exactly what I was going to do!" I shouted to him, and threw down my pack to start gathering sticks. Everything was wet, and wood was sparse, but I found the driest of it and joined the man under a sheltering tree bough. Tinman, for that was his name, had numb fingers and could barely strike a match. They weren't lighting anyway, as the striker was kaput. When I found him he was on his last few matches, trying to thaw his fingers over a single tiny flame. I wondered what he would have done had I not shown up. I lit my canister stove and we held sticks over it until they dried enough to catch blaze. A fire was slowly built up. Once it was big enough, I took off my shoes and warmed my feet, watching steam rise off my pants and socks. We sat there for a while, talking, thankful for the warmth. So thankful.
Over the next hour and a half, hikers would round the corner, wide-eyed and grim, favoring a frozen digit or limb. Upon seeing the fire they would stumble over like a moth toward light, reaching for the warmth. We built the fire a bit bigger to accommodate the crowd, pulling dead branches from the trees.
A patch of blue sky; the sun came out. We rejoiced. The ground hissed and steamed like it was angry at the sun's radiance. But I turned to it, embraced it, arms outstretched and face up as if I could gather up all the warmth and warm me to my core. It was time; I headed out.
The trail led downhill and wandered through old-growth forests. I shuffled down a soft floor, the trees dripping and the sunlight shafting through the branches above. A brief heaven. Uphill again-- not bad, but eerie in the dusky light. It started raining again, and grew dark. I had seen no one after I left the fire. I assumed most people were holed up in a tent, unwilling to face the weather. They were probably smarter than I. I made it to a creek and set up in a large camping area by myself. Everything but my sleeping bag, backup socks, and down jacket was completely soaked. My pants steamed from my body heat as I cooked dinner.
It rained all night, and the trees dripped as I packed up. Everything was wet now, but I didn't care to keep it dry. I was going to town. I had slept fitfully, and guessed I had only gotten around four hours of sleep. I hit the trail at 4:30am, for I had 14 miles to get to civilization and couldn't risk missing the only bus that day to the ferry. If I missed the bus-- well, there would be some pretty serious ramifications. I had to make it to the bus.
As I climbed uphill, I started to see snow. My feet grew numb again, and I wondered if it was better to have feet I couldn't feel or feet that were in pain. It was dark. On my occasional sweep for stalking cougars, pinpricks of light above caught my eye. I looked up and gasped; billions of stars covered the night sky, the brightest I had ever seen. A clear sky. Relief flooded through me; perhaps the worst was over. The snow sparked underfoot and the stars above, and for a while all that could be heard was the crunching of the snow. It would have been magical if not for my frozen toes.
I turned onto the fire detour, following tracks of rabbits, deer, and coyote. Soon I found myself climbing up a huge boulder field on icy cold rocks. I made my way up the obvious man-made steps until they faded out. With the dim early-morning light, I was unsure if the trail went up or down. I doubted it would go up, so I started going down to what looked like a path until it got rough and scrambly. That didn't seem right. Huh. I looked around. There-- that must be the trail. Nope. I decided to backtrack and find the steps. I carefully picked my way over the rocks, knowing full well that one slip could cause a serious incident; broken bones for sure. At times I threw my trekking poles down to use my hands to maneuver or climb. The icy rock sucked all the warmth out of my hands, and they joined my feet in the numb world. I stopped after a few minutes, unsure of where the steps were in the massive boulder field. Come on sun, a little more light! I pleaded with the glowing sky. I couldn't afford to waste any more time looking for the trail. I searched again for where the trail met the boulders to start the climb up the stairs. Ah, there. I was worried the little setback had slowed me down too much, but I quickly got back to the stairs and continued up. After a few confusing turns the trail became obvious again.
I hiked fast to the pass, taking only a moment to take in the snow white wonderland. Incredible.
I shuffle-ran down the hill in delight, soft snow cushioning my steps. The snow finally faded away as I descended, but my legs grew frigid as I brushed against wet ferns and bushes, leaving me soaked in the chilly air. Although it had been light for a few hours, the sun hesitated to rise above the high cliffs so I shivered in the shadows until the trail met the sun in radiant warmth and brightness.
I started seeing dayhikers and knew I was close. Its always a strange feeling to emerge rugged and tired from the woods after a crazy few days and pass fresh hikers... they just had no idea. I finally made it to the retreat center and ate some toast while I waited for the bus. I ran into Leapfrog and Sharkbait, who I hadn't seen since the Sierras. It was exciting to see familiar faces, though I was so sleepy I didn't have much energy to talk. We loaded onto the bus and took a forty minute ride to the ferry landing where I rinsed my socks and laid everything out. With the brilliant sun, most everything was completely dry twenty minutes later when the boat arrived.
The ferry was awesome; tables and food on the main level, movie theater chairs on the second, and seating outside for unhampered views. After exploring I settled into a booth by a window and ate a breakfast sandwich as I watched the shoreline glide by. The water churned white as the boat cut through the blue water. It was luxury, and it was all too short. Forty minutes later we landed in Stehekin, and the chaos began. I only had an hour and a half to pick up a package, sort through resupply stuff, clean up, and get a permit to camp that night before catching a bus back to the trail.
All chores finished, I had 10 minutes left when I got to the ranger station. The rangers were like the sloths from Zootopia. They knew we were trying to catch the bus but took their time filling out forms, informing us of bears, and putting info into the computer. The ranger handed me my permit and I dashed out the door, shuffling down the path to the bus. One minute to spare, I hopped on, wishing I could have had more time in Stehekin.
It had been a stressful (but enjoyable) day, trying to be on time for all the transportation. I would breath a sigh of relief with each step of the journey complete. Back to the trail, back on my own agenda. I hiked quickly, for it was past 3pm and I had 14 uphill miles to go to get to my designated campsite. Because I was camping in North Cascade NP, I had to camp at a certain spot based on my permit. I watched the moon rise over the mountain and darkness settled in the mountains. It was hard to navigate to the camping area but I finally found a cluster of tents and set up my stuff. It started to get cold again and my breath hung in the air, but at least I was dry. At last.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
-Robert Frost
My watch alarm beeped at 5:30am. I silenced it with a few buttons and went back to sleep. That was my watch's dying breath. When I woke up the face was blank, never to tell time again. It had served me nine faithful years. Everything was breaking toward the end.
More uphill; I trudged along, knowing full well I should try to pick up the pace or I would be hiking late into the night, but I couldn't bring myself to go any faster. It was the last full day before I would reach Canada. I arrived at Rainy Pass, the last road crossing, the last place I could get out and skip ahead or even quit. I started at the road for a few moments, briefly considering skipping ahead. But I was so close to the end. So close. I crossed the road and hiked up the trial into a thick in fog.
A new world awaited me above the clouds. The beauty slowed me down too much, but I was determined to enjoy myself on the last day. I enjoyed a long lunch break on top of a mountain while my dewy stuff dried out under the warm sun.
Downhill, I entered the zone; zombie mode. It is rare, this zone, but wonderful if you can manage it. Miles fly by and time doesn't exist. But the zone requires specific conditions. The terrain must be a gentle down where you can just cruise, or a slight and effortless uphill. The trail has to be an easy dirt path, no rocks to stumble over or mud to trudge through. The backpack must be light, so it is easily forgettable. There can be no distracting pain or views to draw you out of the zone. The weather has to be nice: not too hot, not too cold, not too bright or too much wind. In the zone thoughts flow freely, unforced, and you don't get bored or tired. It is wonderful.
Unfortunately it has to end. The uphill drew me out of the zone as I climbed switchback after switchback in a perfect zig-zag up the mountain. I raced the sun to the top, trying to stay in the light while the shadow crept up the hill. The switchbacks were frustratingly long and mild, making a relatively short hill a long process. I really wanted to cut one, and so I did. The ground was steep and crumbly as I cut straight up the mountain, but if felt good to show a little rebellion at the occasional stupidity of the trail. It only saved less than .1 miles, but I was gleeful to have broken a rule.
The sun was fully behind the mountains by the time I made it to the top, and it was cold and windy. The trail followed the ridgeline for a long while. The mountains silhouetted against the darkening sky and the snow gleamed from their peaks. I took a moment to breath it in. Last night on trail. I had the mountain to myself. Beautiful. But I couldn't take long to appreciate it. I had miles to go, and finally I dug out my headlamp and put on my music-- mountain lion mode.
I cruised down the mountain, on the last stretch to the parking lot at Harts Pass. Paranoia of cougars was fading until I looked down the rocky slope and saw three pairs of yellow eyes staring back at me. My heart skipped a beat and I shivered. I stopped for a moment to make a few strange inhuman noises, but only halfheartedly, and the eyes started back at me, blinking. I kept walking, looking back constantly. They never followed me, but kept watching. I picked up my pace; I was so over night hiking. A bit later I saw more glowing eyes from up above. An owl sat wide-eyed, spinning its head around to look at me before flying away on silent wing.
I made it to Harts Pass at 9:30pm. Harts pass is a camping area, and the last civilization before the Canadian border about 30 miles away. I took a moment to rest, snack, and figure out another fire closure situation. There was supposed to be a fire detour up a road, but there were three roads that led away from where I was, and the map was unclear about which one to take. I wished it was light so I could see further than the 15 foot radius of my headlamp. I settled on the middle road and walked up a ways, coming to a parking lot I recognized from the map. I was in the right place. Now to find the shortcut to the fire detour- I walked up a path but it headed the wrong direction. Not wanting to make a shortcut a longcut, I turned around. Maybe there was another path a bit further, beyond the beam of my headlamp? I continued up the road, past a line of silent parked cars. Another trail- I turned onto it to check it out, but it faded after about 20 feet. I sighed. This was impossible in the dark. I had already wasted too much time trying to figure out which way to go, so I decided to just pitch a tent there, among a clump of trees. I was comforted by the fact that there were cars just 50 feet away, and 2 horses were tethered to a post by the parking lot. A huge tent to the side seemed to be housing people. I cooked one last meal on trail and tried to decide when I should wake up. I was dead tired, and any time before 6am would be too dark to find the trail. Stupid fire closures. If not for the confusion, I could have simply followed the PCT and been 4 miles further up the trail. It was 11:30 by the time I got to bed. Camped by a roadside, unsure where exactly to go the next day, almost midnight, alone with a few nearby horses, eating not-as-good-as-I'd-hoped dinner. Not what I imagined the last night would be. The last night. Hard to imagine, but it was almost over.