Trail Log: PCT Days 1-14

June 19th – July 2nd, 2020

“This is it.”

I turn mid-step to see my husband standing a few yards behind me on the trail, a broad grin sweeping across his face and a breathtaking Pasayten Wilderness vista stretching between us.

“This is what?”

“If I take one more step, it’ll be the farthest away from home I’ve ever been.”

I grin back appreciatively at the Tolkien reference and reply with a chuckle, “Come on, babe.”

The rest of the quote plays out in my mind as we continue along the first few miles of our Pacific Crest Trail journey: “Remember what Bilbo used to say: ‘It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no telling where you might be swept off to.'”

Neither of us have any way of knowing just how true these words will be over the next two weeks.

Day 1

June 19th, 2020

Harts Pass to Buffalo Pass

4.4 miles

The dust settles slowly over the now empty gravel parking lot. I can hear the faint sounds of my father-in-law’s retreating truck down the Harts Pass road, his last words still echoing in my ears. “Good luck.”

I turn to my hiking companions with an apprehensive smile, scarcely believing this day has finally come. After so many years of dreaming, so many nights spent pouring over blogs and gear reviews and pack lists, so many plans laid and relaid, so many training hikes, so many emotions leading up to this one moment that is finally actually really really happening.

After everything, I am finally here.

“Let’s do this.”

Snow greets our first few steps, foreshadowing for what’s to come. We climb happily through the snow piled atop the trail corridor, kicking each step as we go. After a short time in the trees, we are greeted by an open stretch of dry trail with the full glory of the Pasayten Wilderness preening before us. Snow-capped mountain peaks beneath a clear blue sky leave me staring in open-mouthed wonder. My soul sings with the gentle breeze. Come what may, I am right where I belong.

The farther we walk, the more snow we encounter. We take our time, teaching Ryan how to safely traverse snowy trail since this is a new experience for him.

By the time we make camp in the early hours of evening over Buffalo Pass, snow completely covers most of the landscape. We find two flat(ish) tent sites along a snowy ridge a short ways apart. As Dad moves off to get his camp set up, I pull out our Zpacks Duplex tent and start teaching Ryan how to set it up. A little while later, we sit enjoying our first dinner on trail – homemade macaroni and cheese with buffalo chicken and jalapeño for me, beans and rice with Fritos and Taco Bell hot sauce for Ryan and Dad.

As we lay snuggled in our tent before the day has fully lost its light, Ryan and I reflect on our first day.

“I don’t know if I can do this…” Ryan admits in a whisper, “but I don’t want to let you down.”

“I believe in you,” I reply softly as I interlace our fingers and begin drifting off to sleep, “I believe in us. We can do this together.”

Day 2

June 20th, 2020

Buffalo Pass to Devil’s Backbone

10 miles

Before 5AM, I wake to the sound of rain sprinkling softly on the tent walls. Hopeful it will stop, I roll over and go back to sleep.

It finally stops raining half an hour later, so Ryan and I get up and start breaking camp. There has been so much to teach him and to share together out here already. I’m relearning my camp routine with a second person, and he is newer to this, so we take extra time to move through our morning. And that’s okay, we planned for this in the early days of the trek. Seeing him go through this process fills me with nostalgia for my own early backpacking days. All the discomfort and trepidation, all the little things that become as big and vast as the mountain peaks stretching so far in every direction.

After a quick breakfast, we break camp and continue our trek north to the Canadian border sitting just under 30 miles away.*

Windy Pass, our first true pass of the trip, is completely snow-covered on both sides, leaving us to navigate rather than blindly follow trail. We weave through trees, across a snowy mountainside bowl and up a series of switchbacks, finally reaching the top by mid-morning. We are traversing the ridge and readying for our descent into the next basin when Dad turns to me with wide eyes. “Where are my sunglasses??” He asks, thinly veiled panic beginning to rise in his voice.

My own eyes widen in reciprocal panic. Reflective light from the snow becomes quickly dangerous without proper protection, burning the corneas (the skin of the eyes) and causing snow blindness. Without protective eye cover, we won’t get far. After searching every pocket of his clothing and pack in vain, we are left with only one possibility. Dad’s expensive, trifocal sunglasses were lost somewhere along the winding, two-mile ascent.

We retrace our steps back to the switchbacks just below the exposed side of the pass. Here, Ryan and I wait with the packs while Dad races back the direction we came in search of his glasses. While he is gone, a group of three SOBO** PCT hikers about my age passes by on the switchbacks. Each is wearing his puffy and wielding an ice axe as they work their way up to the ridge. None has seen the sunglasses.

Dad returns with a defeated expression over 45 minutes later, already contemplating a backup plan. The good news: prescription glasses have built-in UVA and UVB protection. The not so good news: Ryan will have to lend Dad his sunglasses and get by with only his regular glasses until the next resupply while our off-trail coordinators get Dad a replacement pair.

With this worked out, we again cross the ridge in preparation for our descent off the exposed Windy Pass. On the other side of the ridge, we run into the other SOBO hikers again and stop to say hi. With limited snow experience, these three Texans admit they are contemplating turning around due to concerns for running out of food with the slow, snowy navigation. We wish them luck and press on, beginning our descent across a large bowl of alpine snow and into the woods far below.

I lose my footing on a steep sidehill and slide fifty feet before finally catching myself with a trekking pole. My water bottle isn’t so lucky; it slides an additional fifty feet before catching in a sun cup and coming to rest. I climb down to retrieve it and kick steps back up to my companions, embarrassed and exhausted but ready to carry on. Ryan strains a ligament in his left knee kicking steps up a slope and has to move slower after that, hobbling at varying degrees as we move.

We make it over Jim Pass and Foggy Pass, traverse Devil’s Backbone and press on toward Holman Pass, our planned stop for the night. Along the way, we run into another group of SOBO hikers turning back due to the conditions. These three guys are from Portland OR. They will be continuing south along the Washington section and plan to come back to tag the border later in the season.

Within a mile of Holman Pass and far beyond any remaining footsteps to follow, we pause to re-apply Trail Toes to the hotspots on Ryan’s feet. This is one of many stops we have made along the way, as we have been getting into our rhythms as individuals and a group. Ryan especially is still getting to know his gear, learning how to traverse this terrain and acclimating to the general discomforts of backpacking with which Dad and I have long been acquainted. We don’t blame him in the least for these pauses and patiently help wherever we can.

As I pull the small tub of Trail Toes from my belt pouch in the late afternoon sun, I do a bit of mental math and sigh softly before turning to my companions and making a suggestion that goes against everything in my tenacious heart.

“We should consider turning around and coming back to this bit of trail later. At our current pace, we won’t have enough food to make it to the border and back to our next resupply point. What do you think?”

After a bit of discussion, we all agree.

We make it back to Devil’s Backbone and set up camp for the night. I try to smile through it, try to stay positive, but disappointment settles deep in my bones. Less than two days into this journey, and I already feel like I have given up by turning back. My brain sagely whispers that we made the smart decision, that a true mountaineer knows when to turn back, but my heart hasn’t yet gotten the message.

After a wet wipe bath and a hot dinner complete with hot chocolate, my spirits lift slightly despite the falling rain. Two people I love are sitting here beside me, a breathtaking wilderness view surrounds me, a warm bed awaits, and there is still so much left to experience here. Part of being out here is realizing how little I can actually control, letting go, being open to whatever may come. I have passed my first test.

After dinner, Ryan finds me sitting quietly on a rock contemplating these things. He sits down beside me and says, “I’m so happy to be here, to be able to see what you actually do when you come out here. It’s incredible.”

“I’m happy to share it with you.” I reply in a soft voice still dampened by my slowly fading disappointment. And I realize as I say it just how true it really is. Being out here with the people I love is more important to me than touching a piece of wood twenty miles away to the north. Being together, experiencing this wilderness side by side, matters more. This, more than anything else, warms me against the raindrops and disappointments of the day.

His returning smile carries with it an overtone of uncertainty. “I still don’t know if I can do this… and now I don’t know how bad I fucked up my leg today. We’ve only just started this, and I’m already limping. All the little things are so big out here. Hiking in wet socks, a sore knee, the rain… It’s all huge.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure true. But it’s not just the tough shit that gets big out here, it’s everything. The beautiful things get magnified too. A moment of sunshine on an otherwise rainy day, dipping sore feet into a cool stream at the end of a long hike, a hot meal, a warm sleeping bag, a hard-earned view… once you acclimate to the discomfort, it’s easier to focus on the little, huge amazing things. Give it a couple weeks; it takes time to get used to the rhythms of being out here.”

I add gently that I won’t judge him in the slightest if he ultimately decides this isn’t for him, as much as I love being out here together. I promise to support him no matter what he decides.

We climb into bed as the sun sets behind the clouds and fall asleep almost immediately.

*Since walking into the U.S. from Canada is prohibited, southbound PCT hikers start at Harts Pass and hike north to tag the monument at the Canadian border (the northern terminus) before turning and walking south to the Mexican border 2,650 miles away in Campo, CA.

**SOBO is shorthand for hiking in a southbound direction, while NOBO is shorthand for northbound.

Day 3

June 21st, 2020

Devil’s Backbone to Meadows Campground

11 miles

Today is a day of retracing steps.

Ryan’s leg feels better this morning after a night of solid rest but flares back up as we traverse the passes back toward Harts. I look back at one point to see him punching the snow in frustration after falling yet again with attempted plunge stepping.* He is still learning, and this hike has tossed him right into the deep end. We offer advice intermittently and give him space to familiarize himself with the terrain.

The rain has thankfully abated, leaving the day cloudy then sunny and clear. We reach Harts Pass by mid afternoon, already moving a bit faster than the first two days. At the pass, Dad and I sit atop a picnic table and pour over the map while I cook myself a hot lunch and Ryan naps in the shade.

“Happy Father’s Day,” I say with a smile. I can’t think of a better place to celebrate this holiday with my father than out here. It also happens to be Hike Naked Day, but we collectively decide against actively celebrating that one.

We go another two miles past Harts before stopping for the evening near Meadows Campground, again long before the light has left the sky. After setting up camp, I head down to the nearby stream to filter water. When I return to camp, Ryan has disappeared. I find him tucked behind a nearby hill with his head in his hands on the verge of throwing in the towel.

We talk for what feels like hours as I listen intently and help him process so many things. I see in his eyes the first big wall of overwhelm, arguably among the biggest hurdles an aspiring backpacker faces. He sits at the precipice of “too hard” and “worth pushing through”. Only he can decide, so I offer my love and support. I remind him that I believe in him and speak to the power of pushing through.

“If you can do this, you can do anything. If you can do this, you can do the next scary thing. And that’s a feeling of empowerment unlike any other.”

Ryan’s spirits lift over a shared hot dinner of beans and rice with cheese powder and lots of Taco Bell hot sauce, and he’s smiling again by bedtime.

*Plunge stepping is a technique for walking down a steep snowy slope by stepping away from the slope and firmly planting your heel into the snow, allowing gravity to pull you toward your next step. Your leg should be firm to resist the upward force of the slope to your foot, but avoid locking the knee to minimize injury.

Day 4

June 22nd, 2020

Meadows Campground to Brush Creek footbridge

12 miles

We break camp by 7:30AM the next morning, still starting slow as we acclimate to our combined camp rhythms.

As we hike, I silently reflect on how little personal meditation I’ve achieved in the first three days. Usually, I spend a lot of time in my head out here. It’s one of the things that keeps me coming back. Being out here removes distractions, forcing me to be present with myself. So far though, I have been more focused on helping Ryan than processing my own experience. I don’t regret this at all, but I resolve to let go a bit today and allow us each the space to be with ourselves more.

We navigate an exposed bowl of consolidated snow, kicking side steps in the slope and digging our poles into the snow as we go. My fear of heights kicks in, making my palms sweat and my heart hammer in my chest as we skirt a sharp turn in the mountainside.

Sunscreen runs into my eyes, but I blink it away and keep pressing forward. I can feel the skin of my face burning with the intense light reflecting off the snow despite my frequent sunscreen applications, so I cover my face in my bandana. We descend to Glacier Pass and finally hike below the snow to bare trail. Ryan takes the lead, and I can feel the giddiness in his steps reflected in my own at the solid earth beneath our feet. The feeling of pounding bare trail with long strides is incredible beyond words.

We make camp by Brush Creek near a footbridge and soon are contentedly munching on mushroom alfredo and beef stroganoff dinners. This is our first camp below the snow line, and we are almost too warm in our zero degree sleeping bags. A few mosquitoes buzz around us, but I swat them away with amused gratitude. The real hatch hasn’t started yet.

Day 5

June 23rd, 2020

Brush Creek footbridge to Porcupine Creek

17 miles

Today, I take my first steps toward learning how to navigate in the snow.

We break camp by 7AM with sunshine in the forecast and enthusiasm in our collective hearts. We are within a day or two of our next planned resupply at Rainy Pass, and I am buoyed by thoughts of a hot shower, a greasy burger and an ice cold beer.

The first seven miles undulating through the valley reveal how little trail maintenance has happened yet this far into the wilderness. We scramble over innumerable downed trees, through stretches of overgrown vegetation and around fallen boulders. The swollen rivers remind us how much snow still sits slowly melting up higher on the Cascade peaks.

We encounter snow over the trail around 5500 feet in elevation. I pull out my Garmin InReach and begin tracking the trail corridor with cut logs, hatched trees, and other trail markers. This is a skill I have long needed to perfect, and I push forward excitedly as I guide our group to the top of Methow Pass at 6593 ft. Ryan discovers the joy of microspikes today, and he looks ready to cry from happiness. The little things, indeed.

We sit atop Methow Pass enjoying the view over king-sized Snickers bars. Ryan turns to me with a twinkle of wonder in his eyes and says, “Do you know how much of a badass you are?” I don’t even try to hold back my grin at the compliment. The wilderness is a place for feeling all of my emotions to their fullest; who do I have to hide them from out here, anyway?

After our quick lunch, we traverse bare trail along the south-facing* mountainside to Granite Pass at 6262 ft. Other than a few sketchy snow bridges and a very dangerous rock slide area, we enjoy smooth sailing for this portion.

Once we reach Granite, we begin a north-facing climb toward the aptly named Cutthroat Pass at 6910 ft.

For the first time in our trip, we pull out our ice axes. After a mixed snow and loose rock scramble to the top of a mountain peak, we have to carefully walk across a small section of hanging snow and plunge our ice axes deep into its depths to descend the peak at a steep grade overlooking a sheer drop just past a slim swatch of trail below. Facing down this obstacle, I have a moment of hyperventilating fear with tears welling in my eyes.

I could die here, I think, I could die here…

Ryan looks back at me with fear in his own eyes, sees the panic painting my features, and offers me a small smile of strength and camaraderie. With his smile, he says, I’m here with you. You’re not facing this terrifying thing alone. Then he turns to face the thing head-on. Geronimo.

Dad, who is now plotting our route, also sees my fear. He asks, “Do you trust me?”

I reflect on all that we have done together in the past, all the years of experience he brings to everything we do out here. I think back to my own words: If I can do this, I can do the next scary thing.

“Yes,” I reply simply.

And that settles it. I set my fear gently, respectfully aside and descend the slope. When my feet hit bare trail, a short stream of relieved expletives leaves my lips. There is still a lot of pass ahead, but I trust my partners and my own strength to overcome my fears.

We traverse two expansive snow bowls through obvious avalanche territory, thankful the snow is consolidated and thus safer to cross over. At the next ridge, we find ourselves needing to climb up and over a cornice** of snow. Here again the ice axes come out to play, creating handholds to climb over the wall of corniced snow to the other side. By now, it is past 5PM and the sun is beginning to cast long shadows in the snow.

One thought fills my anxious mind: Descend. Descend. Descend.

As we regroup from the cornice traverse and prepare for the final push to the pass summit, Ryan’s energy starts to fade. When I check in with him, he admits to feeling nauseous. We encourage him to take sips of water as we press forward with no time to waste. After a long ridge walk, we finally reach the summit and begin our descent. Despite his best efforts, Ryan’s energy continues to wane. He seems distant in a way that concerns us, and we watch him closely as we descend in earnest. We finally see bare trail again around 8PM, and Dad stops us to sit a fully bonked*** Ryan down and give him a Zofran (antiemetic medication) from his med kit. I filter water for all of us while Dad heats water for Ryan to hug against him inside his jacket.

After the Zofran has kicked in a bit, we force-feed Ryan little bits of trail mix and water for energy as we keep hiking in search of a camp-able spot. After 10PM, now hiking in dark rain with headlamps through snow and water soaked ground, we finally settle for a small, trail-side spot on a gentle slope in the trees. Dad and I pitch the tent and get Ryan into it, where he immediately falls asleep, rebuffing all dinner offers.

I turn to Dad with a sad smirk in the damp darkness. “You know what would be pretty great right now? Hammocks…” I gesture to the surrounding trees for emphasis.

Dad and I stay up until almost 11:30PM cooking dinner, airing out our aching, soaked feet and reflecting on the day. We total up how much food and water Ryan has been consuming over the past two days and see that it has not been nearly enough. Today alone, he ate less than 700 calories of food while burning 400-600 calories per hour over a 15-hour hiking day. Combine that with his decreased appetite during dinner the past couple nights, and it cannot be surprising that he bonked so hard today.

Since there is only room for one tent, Dad and I pile into my side of the Duplex on overlapped foam mats. As I drift into a shallow sleep, I’m reminded with a soft smile of our experience in this same tent over Clouds Rest on the 26th night of our John Muir Trail hike last summer.

*In the Northern Hemisphere, soil on south-facing slopes dries out faster and is warmer than soil on north-facing slopes due to longer exposure to sunlight. Therefore, a north-facing slope will usually develop a dramatically different snowpack than a south-facing slope.

**A cornice is a mass of snow deposited by the wind, often overhanging, and usually near a sharp terrain break such as a ridge. Cornices can break off unexpectedly and should be approached with caution.

***“Bonk” is an expression used by athletes to describe exercise-induced low blood sugar levels; a feeling of light-headedness and weakness in all limbs.

Day 6

June 24th, 2020

Porcupine Creek to Rainy Pass

1.5 miles

We wake with the sun after a fitful night of tossing and turning. Despite the discomfort, I find myself amazed at my little, two-person tent’s ability to shelter all three of us. We eat a quick breakfast and break camp in the rain, ready to be off this pass that is more than living up to its name.

Within the first quarter mile, we ford a river and soak our boots, our socks, our feet. We reach Rainy Pass Trailhead by 9AM and find the Portland SOBO hikers there breaking camp near the parking lot. They have been roughly half a day ahead of us on this section, and we all reflect on the trail conditions together.

One of the guys, Marcus, hears Ryan complaining about his knee pain and commiserates. They are both duck-footed* and experiencing subsequent IT band issues. Marcus is leaving the trail after they reach Stehekin tonight, so he generously donates his brace to Ryan. The other two, a father and son, will be regrouping to decide if/how they will continue the trail farther south where the snow is lighter.

After they leave, we change clothes and relax beneath tree cover while we wait for our ride back to town. I quietly try not to get my hopes up too high for Ryan to continue, as he has seemed miserable more often than not these past few days, but I can’t help myself. I really enjoy experiencing this wilderness together, and I know I’ll be sad if he decides to quit the trail now. I don’t tell him this though, as I don’t want to be the reason he keeps going. Out here, those decisions need to be personal.

Our friend (and ride) Phil ambles into view, and it takes my brain a few full seconds to catch up with what I’m seeing. My excitement kicks in, and I call out, “Phil, hey!!” He replies in greeting, then sees Ryan and exclaims, “Dude, you’ve lost some serious weight!” Looking at Ryan and reflecting on how few calories he has been consuming, I can’t disagree. I introduce Phil to my dad as he picks up my bear canister** and starts guiding us to his car where Mollie, a friend and fellow veterinarian, waves excitedly.

This is the beginning of a few beautiful, much needed zero days.***

*Duck feet describes a lower body postural misalignment in which your feet turn outward at 45-degree angles when you’re standing or walking. Duck feet is more serious than it may seem, because it’s a mechanical misalignment at the root of lower back, hip, foot and knee pain, and it makes you more prone to injury.

**A bear canister is a thick container, usually plastic, used as a physical barrier to protect your food and scented items from bears and other wildlife. Sometimes also referred to as a ‘bear bin’ or ‘bear barrel’ or ‘bear resistant food container’. It is required in certain bear-heavy areas; we plan to carry ours the whole way.

***A zero day refers to a zero-mile day, or rest day.

Day 9

June 27th, 2020

Rainy Pass to High Bridge

21 miles

Mollie and Phil wave goodbye as they drive off down the highway. Dad, Ryan and I are back at Rainy Pass with refreshed feet, full bear canisters and a twenty-mile plan for the day.

Our zero days were spent eating copious amounts of food, sleeping, pouring over the map and updating our gear at the Seattle flagship REI. Although I had been (sort of) kidding about the hammock comment, such was the frustration during our night without a good place to camp that Dad really took the advice to heart. So, I gave both Dad and Ryan a crash course in hammock camping and outfitted both with a (mostly) complete setup.

I first learned hammock camping from a close vet school friend on a magical girls trip to Eagle Creek in the Columbia Valley Gorge. To this day, the memories we shared there are among my most treasured. Days spent swimming in lagoons with lurking monsters, exploring behind waterfalls along moss-covered rock walls with dragons fuming and roaring in the distance, serenading each other with Girl Scout and Lord of the Rings songs, eating an entire cantaloupe overlooking green lush beauty in every direction. Nights spent swaying gently in our hammocks with the river singing us to sleep.

That same summer, Eagle Creek burned in a manmade forest fire. Every time I hammock, I hold the memory of that weekend, that fantastical place, that beautiful friend in my heart.

I teach Dad and Ryan about how to find the perfect trees, how to properly set up the hammock, the terminology, how to leave no trace as a hammocker. They are quick studies, and they decide to carry hammocks in addition to our two tents on this section of the trip.

Our twenty mile day slopes gently downhill over bare trail with water sources every mile or so. We make good time despite my feet being a bit sore breaking in new insoles.

A few miles into the day, we pass a man with four young girls all wearing backpacks, out for the weekend. The man asks where we are headed, and we reply, “Mexico.” We tell him about our journey so far and, as we leave, I hear him talking to the girls.

“They’re walking to Mexico.” He says in a matter-of-fact tone.

“WHAAAAT???? Seriously????” One of the girls shrieks incredulously.

“Yup.” I hear a twinge of amusement in his voice before their conversation is lost to the sounds of a nearby stream.

We pass other weekend hikers as we walk, and it feels odd to see so many people out here. Between the rain, the outbreak and the snowy conditions, we haven’t seen hardly anybody so far. We were also among the first SOBO hikers to start the season, so we haven’t seen many PCTers either, and the ones we have been seeing seem to all be hopping off this section of trail. While the conditions have been rough, we have actually really enjoyed having so much of the Cascade wilderness to ourselves.

We reach High Bridge as the sun is beginning to set, and the kind NPS officers give us permission to stay at the campground (normally a separate permit would be required) for the night. Dad and I play around with creatively setting up our hammocks inside the three-walled shelter, and Ryan decides to pitch the Duplex tent nearby.

With freshly sore feet and exhausted muscles, we inhale our dinners in the dying daylight. Ryan has a new energy around him, an aura of empowerment and determination. He religiously tracks his food and water intake, treats his feet with immaculate care, and maintains an upbeat attitude. He sets a personal record for farthest mileage backpacked in one day (21 miles). I couldn’t be more proud if I tried, and I tell him in a whisper how happy I am that he stayed.

Day 10

June 28th, 2020

High Bridge to Hemlock Camp

13 miles

We afford ourselves a leisurely start this morning after our high mileage day yesterday. There’s nothing quite like a lazy Sunday morning enjoying coffee while swaying gently in my hammock.

We break camp by 9AM and keep a gentle pace as we climb out of the Suiattle valley. Rain falls at intervals, and we dance in and out of our gore-tex* layers in an attempt to stay dry. My feet complain with increasing ferocity throughout the day, still acclimating to long miles in heavy boots. I can’t wait to switch over to my trail runners, I think to myself as we climb over yet another fallen tree.

Sometime in the early afternoon, the chest strap of my pack breaks off. Without this stabilizing strap, my weight feels a bit offset and my core tires quickly. We jury-rig a makeshift repair with a spare strap Dad has been carrying and walk a few more miles before stopping for the evening.

We set up the hammocks in a patch of trees alongside a river and take turns enjoying riverside baths before cooking dinner and getting into bed before sunset.

*Gore-tex is a waterproof, (sort of) breathable fabric used in many rain shell layers. We are each carrying gore-tex jackets, rain pants and gaiters. My boots and waterproof gloves also have gore-tex. It keeps rain out, but it also keeps sweat in, a precursor to hypothermia if you’re not careful.

Day 11

June 29th, 2020

Hemlock Camp to lower Miners Creek footbridge

17 miles

Today starts off with a nerve-wracking bang.

Fording rivers is arguably the most dangerous aspect of what we do out here, especially this time of year. The snow melt up high and frequent rain swell the already treacherous water levels, and fallen trees create hazardous eddies.

In the first quarter-mile of leaving camp, we come to a river crossing with slick, damp logs haphazardly strewn across it. Rather than risk a potentially deadly fall here, we search upstream and find a (semi) safe place to traverse the waters.

Once we reach the other side, we enjoy several miles of smooth sailing despite the overgrown vegetation and fallen trees that have become an expected part of the trail experience.

As we ascend in elevation on our approach to Suiattle Pass, snow begins to cover the trail in patches. Somewhere around 5500 feet after yet another river crossing, it obscures the trail entirely. We spot two skunks ahead on our chosen route and quickly readjust to give them ample space.

For a mile or so, we navigate above the tree line to increase route visibility and get out of tree well territory. With no rain in the forecast, a clear sky reveals stunning mountain peaks that steal my breath away.

Soon, we are back in the trees and navigating up to the top of Suiattle Pass. Unlike the passes that came before it, the final miles of this traverse stays mostly in the trees. We reach the top by mid afternoon and eat a quick snack before beginning our descent.

We make camp at a footbridge below the snow line by late evening and quickly move through our camp chores. Sleep finds me before my head even fully hits my hammock pillow.

Day 12

June 30th, 2020

Lower Miners Creek footbridge over Grassy Point

12 miles

“Today is going to be a good day.”

I should have known better than to blurt this our first thing this morning. I may as well have walked into a silent veterinary treatment area and said, “Gee, sure is quiet back here today.” Facepalm.

(Veterinarians tend to be superstitious people, if you couldn’t tell :P)

The day starts off well enough. No rain, a gorgeous high bridge crossing the Suiattle River, a delicious pop tart snack…

But within a mile of my verbal blunder, it begins.

We come to our first river ford of the day. The water rushes wide, deep and swift, cut with rocks and drops and eddies both up and down stream. We search far through the off-trail brush in both directions along the river bank before finally settling on the safest (though still far from ideal) crossing point a ways downstream.

To complete the chosen route, we each plan to walk out over the river on a mossy, slick log, holding onto overhanging branches for support. We then step down to a small patch of rocks next to a chokepoint in the river. Next, we step down into the river onto a large rock we placed there ourselves, then take a big step over to another rock we placed on the other side of the rushing water. From there, we climb up onto a pile of rocks and logs on the other side of the chokepoint and carefully follow that to the far riverbank.

I remain master of my fear until my first foot steps down onto the near rock. As I prepare to take my large step to the other rock, I carefully control my breathing and think conscious commands to myself.

Place your trekking poles firmly to either side of the far rock.

Don’t look directly at the moving water.

Move swiftly, carefully, confidently.

Breathe, Britt. You’ve got this.

But as I begin my step to the far rock, my reaching foot takes subconscious instruction from my fear and hesitates for the briefest of moments.

And that’s all it takes.

The hovering foot meets the fast rushing water and is pulled down in the space of a millisecond. I choke on my fear as my mind flashes to the path downstream through boulders and current and treacherous fallen trees.

And then my foot finds solid earth beneath the current at the level of my calf, and I am able to right myself. I move quickly and carefully through the rest of my route before allowing the residual panic and terror to wash over me.

I hike in silence for the next few miles, fighting tears and rebuffing any attempts my companions make to engage me.

As I walk, I pass through mossy old growth forest and am transported to another realm. Here, there is magic. Here, there is solace. Here, there is comfort, an understanding that transcends the spoken word.

These trees stand as silent onlookers to my every roiling emotion. They seem simultaneously to be understanding and indifferent. They have seen much, stood strong over hundreds of years amidst dark weather and decay, digging deep into the mountainside, reaching ever higher into whatever may lie beyond the confines of their canopy. They are giants.

I stand as a seedling in their steadfast presence, a small growth child bent and swayed by the breezes and the currents. My roots are as yet shallow, my trunk flexible, my viewpoint near to the earthy soil.

We are old, we have seen much, young one. They whisper to me as I walk, caressing my footfalls with roots overlapping my narrow strip of trail.

And suddenly, my problems seem small, a minute blip on a much larger continuum. I’m a small part of a big picture, and I take comfort in that knowledge. My energy is a part of everything around me, and I draw ancient strength from the towering pines as I walk on through the mossy forest.

How could I not believe in magic? I see it all around me. The ancient forest, the glowing ferns, the crisp cleansing air… it fills me to overflowing.

Soon, I am back to a kind of amiable baseline as we begin to climb the switchbacks up toward Grassy Point. From here, the elevations stay higher and the slopes face more often to the north. I have no idea what to expect.

I hit a wall as we climb in the rain. Exhausted from hiking uphill, sweating from the gore-tex layers, cold when we stop, it’s a miserable, seemingly endless slog. What a series of ups and downs today has been already…

When we stop for short breaks, I feel myself getting progressively chilled. Danger lurks there, I feel it creeping on the edge of my senses. By the time we reach our first snow at 4700 ft, I feel a bit sluggish, almost drunk. I try to put on my microspikes, though it is far too early to do so. I recognize that my sweat is chilling me beneath my rain shell, and I move to the middle of the group so that my companions can look out for me.

As we slow our pace and continue climbing, I slowly warm up and let my body heat dry out my sweat-soaked layers. Soon, the trail is fully covered in snow and we navigate the rest of the way to the windy, exposed summit and begin winding around the mountainside.

We have been following a single set of boot tracks on and off in this section of trail, and we finally meet their owner on the other side of the pass. He has been a full day ahead of us but turned back today due to the heavy snow. He plans to exit via the Suiattle Pass Trail ten miles back the way we came.

Seeing him leave feels like losing a last beacon of light. We are now truly alone in out here.

With the evening pressing in around us, we pull out our ice axes and descend steep slopes into an open landscape of snow in every direction. The trail winds around the mountain, so we follow as best we can until we come across a problem spot. The trail corridor appears to cliff out and isn’t easily accessible from above or below.

We climb up, down, back and around for what feels like an eternity. The trail is right there, yet it feels so far away beneath the obscuring layers of snow. Clouds roll in, causing a whiteout as the dim daylight begins to fade.

Anxiety overtakes me, and I have to focus hard on my breathing. The cold seeps in again, down to my bones. And I am truly afraid.

Ryan recalls a campsite we passed on a nearby hill of snow, and we trudge back toward it in resignation. We will be camping up here in the snow at 6200 ft tonight.

Miraculously, amidst a sea of snow on all sides, we find the unlikely little camp. A patch of bare earth, just wide and flat enough for two tents, sheltered by a small line of trees.

Ryan and Dad set about pitching the tents while I start boiling snow to filter for water. Partway through my task, the shivering sets in. My mind feels hazy at the edges, like being somewhere between drunk and already hungover. I give voice to the dangerous problem: “I’m c-c-cold.”

Within minutes, I am ushered into the tent to strip my cold, wet layers. I don every dry item of clothing I have, followed by my puffy. I climb into my zero degree top quilt then cover all of these layers with Ryan’s zero degree bag and shiver for what feels like hours.

My hiking companions hand me a hot tea to snuggle for warmth, then a hot meal to get my metabolism going and warm me from the inside. By dark, I am recovered enough to think straight and engage in coherent conversation. But my body is exhausted, and I am soon fast asleep.

Day 13

July 1st, 2020

Grassy Point to Suiattle River Bridge

10 miles

I sleep surprisingly well for how cold it is at our camp, waking only when my alarm goes off at 4AM. I lie in bed reflecting on the last twelve hours.

What am I trying to prove here? Sure, we could keep going, but navigating through the snow is slowing us down immensely. The forecast is rainy and wet, the conditions are grueling, and this is tapping my fun meter, hard. And do we even have enough food and fuel to continue if we stubbornly pressed forward anyway? I do a bit of mental math and come to a disappointing but wise conclusion.

“I think we should turn around.”

The words sit heavy in the air for a moment, and my heart aches a little. This is the second time in as many weeks that I have had to say this.

Soon, we all agree. And we start our journey back to the Suiattle River bridge. On the way, we see bear tracks in the snow. I also get to have a rematch with the river crossing. This time, I nail it.

We reach the bridge by late afternoon and decide to make camp for the night. Soon, we have rides coordinated and plans laid for our exit. The rain starts falling again as we eat dinner and crawl into our hammocks for bed.

Day 14

July 2nd, 2020

Suiattle River Bridge to Suiattle River Trailhead

8 miles

The sun has fully risen when we emerge from our hammocks in the morning. We enjoy a hot, mashed potato breakfast and a steaming cup of coffee before breaking down camp and setting off for the Suiattle River Trail.

As we hike, we come up with trail names for each other. Dad is dubbed Nav since he has been the primary snow navigator and has extensive volunteer search and rescue experience. Ryan is named Ducky because of his yellow rain jacket and duck-footed stance.

I am called Tree Frog because of my hammocking preference and my exuberance whenever I come across a frog or toad on the trail. They feel like little forest spirits to me, and I cherish every encounter.

We pass weekenders headed in to camp for the holiday weekend, and it feels odd to see other people. I am struck by how clean they look and smell. It almost makes me self conscious.

Soon, we are being driven away from the Suiattle River Trailhead. Phil, once again, has saved the day by coming to pick us up. We don’t know exactly what our next move will be, but we all feel ready to be out of the snow, the cold, and the wet for awhile.