Oddball in Washington: Snoqualmie Pass to Stevens Pass

Mount Rainier off in the distance behind trail just north of Ridge and Gravel lakes in the Alpine Lakes Wilderness

After a wonderful rest in Seattle with Granite and Terrapin, which included a dinner with two other 2010 PCT hikers—Microburst and Sweet Sixteen, Terrapin drove me back to the trail.  Even though I was full from breakfast, I returned to the gas station and bought myself a cheap cheeseburger and a Hostess Fruit Pie, and ate them while walking from the gas station to the northbound trailhead at Snoqualmie Pass.  I felt energized and happy as I waved goodbye to Terrapin who was honking while she drove off.  From this point there was only about two-hundred miles left for me to hike and I was happy to be finishing strong.  I kept my goal modest that day, a mere seven miles.  I was not in a rush to leave my Seattle friends but I did need to get my rear back on the trail.  When you are on the PCT long enough, being off just does not feel right.  After a nice little two hour walk, I settled myself in a quiet spot off trail along the far edge of Ridge Lake.  It is nice to have days like this and to finish early because there is no rush to eat and get to sleep.  I took my time eating while reading a new book I picked up in Seattle and caught up on my journal entries before succumbing to slumber.

Glaciers on a parallel ridge 

I loved this new area.  Alpine Lakes Wilderness was gorgeous.  I left Ridge Lake both refreshed and early, and found myself hiking through clouds.  It was a treat.  The cold winds and low clouds reminded me of my day hiking through Goat Rocks, and I hiked that morning without the slight inclination to rush through anything.  An old friend also returned into view, Mount Rainier.  Its snow-capped peak was poking through the distant sea of white clouds.  Like so many other moments in Washington, this view ingrained in my heart a desire to return to Washington.  After all, Rainier's mere presence demands that I summit it in my lifetime.    Why else would such tall peaks be brought forth from the earth, if not to challenge us?  The remainder of the day I resumed my habit of hiking with long and break-less stretches.  Much of the trail this day consisted of a slow decline into one valley and then an equally slow climb up and over another ridge.  The entire way up, despite the glaring sun, I found myself constantly looking over my left shoulder to take in a view of the glaciers on the ridge that ran parallel to the one I was ascending. Once the ascent was complete I traveled around the ridge to a desolate alpine flat with an almost completely hidden little tarn.  I debated staying at the tarn that evening but also appreciated that I still had a good hour or so of sunlight and choose instead to fill up on water and dry camp on a quiet little meadow somewhere near the Waptus River.

North side of Cathedral Pass

Even though there was no shortage of steep climbs and drops remaining on the PCT, it was around here where, for whatever reason, I decided to pack my trekking poles.  Something about them seemed superfluous and I did not want to deal with them anymore.  I continued doing long stretches and often found myself losing track of the time.  It was not because every single mile of trail was like a piece of heaven on Earth, I simply found myself enjoying my hike.  I knew I was going to finish, I knew I was going to finish before the snow began to fall in Washington, and I all that truly remained in my hike was the desire to enjoy myself until I finished.  If anything, the thought of being done was the only thing that made me any bit gloomy.  To avoid gloom I then ceased to think about Canada despite how close it was.  At one point that day I stopped about half a mile short a lake I had planned on breaking at.  I climbed atop a large rock that sat in the shade and overlooked a strong flowing Spinola Creek.  For an hour I sat with a book, ate from a bag of dehydrated bananas, and had a couple of cups of cold coffee.  I also found a large pile of abandoned food and gear.  Curiosity compelled me to shift through it, I found a couple of still-sealed packets of dehydrated biscuits and gravy, and found myself thinking, “what on earth am I doing? I don’t need any of this junk.”  I left the junk where it sat, continued past Deep Lake, admired a lengthy view of it while coming up to Cathedral Pass, jumped from boulder to boulder at a powerful and narrow snow-melt creek just below Mount Daniels, descended back into a thick forest until going over a view-less Deception Pass, and then camped at the first available piece of flat ground where I also found a very cold an delicious spring.  I heard a number of other hikers pass me early in the evening but with my tent’s opening facing away from the trail, I confined myself to my dinner and my book.

Northern Deception Lake

In the morning while I ate my unloved oatmeal and drank my beloved coffee, I was surprised to not only bump into another thru-hiker but also one that I knew—Hesu.  We talked while I broke down my camp and he gave me the address for the Steven’s Pass trail angels—the Dinsmores.  They lived past the Databook’s resupply town entry of Skykomish and in a small and spread out town called Baring.  If I had not found another hiker, I would not have been able to find them.  I remained with my usual place knowing I only had 20 miles to Stevens Pass (unlike the 27 mile haul Clay and I had to make to arrive at Snoqualmie).  I soaked in the views of all the beautiful lakes along the way—Deception Lakes, Surprise, Trap, Hope, Mig, Josephine, and Susan—and before I knew it I was hiking under a ski lift.  Seeing the lift I realized that I was only a couple miles before Stevens Pass and I was about to complete 20 miles without needing a break.  Once I arrived at Stevens Pass I went to the little restaurant, had a hotdog, crossed the highway, and stuck my thumb out.  The Pass was not exactly hitchhiker friendly but after half an hour I got offered a ride from a painter who was leaving work at the pass.  I had a hard time trying to understand what he was saying and realized why only after I got into his car.  My ride was a Russian immigrant who spoke very little English and simply assumed I was trying to get to Seattle.  Despite the language barrier I was able to describe where I needed to go and roughly where Baring was by drawing a line on his dusty dashboard—we’re at Steven’s Pass, I need to go to Baring a few minutes past Skykomish, and Seattle is not where I’m going all the way out here.  It worked.  He drove me to Baring in return for some awkward small talk where neither he nor I could really understand each other; we were literally talking for the sake of talking and to pass time.  I arrived in Baring five minutes before the store closed, got a large deli sandwich, chips, a couple of beers, and some ice cream; and then immediately set off for the Dinsmores’ home.

Oddball in Washington: White Pass to Snoqualmie Pass

Sunrise on the PCT, roughly two miles north of Sheets Pass

I dawdled in Packwood.  I was turned off by the cost of my hotel room the previous night.  A hundred dollars for a room with a broken television and no chairs; I had no idea hotels were getting rid of chairs to save money these days.  I ate a mediocre breakfast at a nearby dinner, walked across the street, and then stuck my thumb out.  It took an hour, but eventually I was picked up by a man who owned property nearby,  lived in Montana, and had been driving back and forth all week.  The truck was littered with empty gas station coffee cups and the man looked like he had not had a decent night’s sleep in a week.  It probably was not my safest ride but a ride is a ride.  When I arrived back at the gas station in White Pass my motivation slowly began to fade and I decided I wanted to eat again.  I also came in about when other hikers starting pouring in, including my old friend Calf.  I had not seen other thru-hikers for a week and was eager to engage in conversation.  I was there long enough that another friendly face came in, Clay.  Calf and Clay were just arriving and were in no rush to leave, in fact they were discussing going into town.  It did not take much to convince me to go back and split a room with these guys.  So, after claiming my resupply package, the three of us went back to the road, and hitched into town.

Pacific Crest Boardwalk

The following day it seemed like it took an eternity to leave Packwood.  We left at a reasonable hour in the morning but getting a ride back to White Pass was difficult.  It took us two separate hitches to get back to the pass and it was late enough that we opted to have lunch before departing.  I sensed my laziness returning and even though Clay was not ready to leave, Calf and I bolted while we could still get some decent miles in.  I was not very excited about leaving so late and I found myself in an awkward position at one point on the trail of having to pass horse riders.  They had passed me coming down hill and then kept stopping in front of me on the narrowest parts of the trail every few minutes.  After awhile I grew sick of the game with the riders and stepped up my race to a near jog and I refused to slow down for two hours.  I found most of the trail immediately out of White Pass to be rather uneventful.  There was some very interesting trail work in some areas though, in an effort to keep a trail actually present in some of the wetter areas, trail crews built boardwalks.  I tried making them a little more interesting by listening to “Love is Strong” by the Rolling Stones on repeat while strutting down these boardwalks.  By the end of the day I impressed myself, I got in 17.3 miles with what few hours of the day that were left and without a single break.  Calf and I setup camp, at a curiously labeled Databook entry and alliteration labeled “reliable rill,” with two ladies who were section-hiking.  After some conversation, a cup of hot chocolate, and a little evening reading I was burying my head in my mummy bag happy just to be back on the trail.

Sunset at Big Crow Basin

The next day Calf hit the trail earlier than I and I took off earlier than the two section hikers.  I also decided to continue hiking long stretches and made Anderson Lake, at a little over seven miles away my first goal.  When I got there though I found a number of campers in sleeping bags along the shoreline closest to the trail; I decided to continue onto the next lake, Dewey.  It was just two more miles.  When I got to Dewey Lake, I found even more campers with even fewer opportunities to claim a small space for my own use.  I convinced myself I would then push forward three more miles to Chinook Pass.  There was a major highway there and I thought I might find a picnic table to sit at for a half an hour or so while reading my book.  What I found on the way to Chinook Pass instead was the greatest density of day hikers I had ever seen on the Pacific Crest Trail.  There were so many that after yielding to the first dozen or so groups, I became upset because of the significantly slower pace required to be courteous to everyone.  I plugged in my headphones, turned on some music, and began pushing through all these day hikers.  I would rush through each large group, smile, yell out "good afternoon" to each person, and allow my headphones and music to deny them any questions.   When I reached Chinook Pass I realized what the problem was, it was a weekend and the pass was also home to highway 140’s entrance to Rainier National Park.  I told myself that if I hiked a little over two more miles, I would reach Sheep Lake and hopefully a place to rest my feet.  Upon arriving at Sheep Lake though, I found no more available space than I found at any earlier place.  With about 14.5 miles of hiking without a break I was done, I sat on the trail, ate, smiled at all the day hikers who walked around me, and half an hour later continued north.  The remainder of the trail that day was dry, rocky, and exposed.  I put away my iPod and pulled out my radio and let Oregon Public Radio help pass the time until I something else caught my attention.  It was Clay, he was behind me and apparently had been trying to get my attention for ten minutes.  We chatted with each other until we reached Big Crow Basin.  It was short of both of our goals but it looked inviting enough, and the nearby spring water was cold, crisp, and refreshing.  After a quick dinner of beans and rice and a spectacular sunset, I wondered how far Calf made it that day.

Fire damaged section north of Government Meadow

I had an obsession with getting to Snoqualmie Pass after leaving White Pass, especially after wasting so much time Packwood.  Two friends of mine who I got to know while hiking the PCT in 2010—Granite and Terrapin—had moved to Seattle after their thru-hike that year and we had long since talked about seeing each other again when I hiked through Washington State.  In Seattle were two other wonderful 2010 hikers as well, Sweet 16 and Microburst.  I had been thinking about a miniature reunion party since I entered Washington.  Snoqualmie Pass was the highway I had to reach to get a ride from Granite to Seattle.  Realizing how close this pass was, Clay and I decided to do as many miles as possible in order to make the following day into town easier.  What we ended up doing that day I never repeated, a 30 plus mile day in Washington.  Early that day, the trail was in thick and cool green forests until Government Meadow.  From there on it traversed many areas that were either burnt or logged.  I was not particularly impressed with the logging areas, although I did find something unexplainably beautiful about the fired-damaged sections.  We had talked about doing 35 miles that day but upon coming across Clay already setting up his tent at 31 miles, it did not take much to convince me to call it a day.  We shared and ate what food we both had left and tried to plan out how on earth we were going to do a little more than 27 miles the following day before 4pm.

Early morning low cloud cover

Clay and I awoke early, ate quickly, and hit the trail heavily caffeinated.  It was cold and wet but I found myself enjoying the cloud cover.  We camped just below the clouds and punched through them just in time to watch an amazing sunrise.  It was almost as if the sun were not rising over the horizon but actually thrusting itself out from amongst the clouds.  Being above the clouds also meant that everything we hiked through was soaked with condensation that loved to escape from shrubs and attach itself to our feet, legs, and waists.  Since it was also very cold that morning, we had a great incentive to move quickly and without breaks—staying warm.  Somewhere just before Mirror Lake I lost Clay, he was hiking faster than I was able to but I was nonetheless equally determined to make it to the pass and opted not to take any breaks.  I regretted this pace and mindset in some places.  Mirror Lake was a place that I instantly wanted to stop and enjoy for a few minutes when it first came into view but I constantly told myself, “just a little further,” until it was too late.  The lake eventually ceased offering a view of itself and I was without a either a break or a photograph.  The closer I got to the pass the more I became comfortable with running downhill.  I was out of food and was not carrying more than half a quart of water, and I planned on zeroing when I got to Seattle.  I felt I could afford a slightly greater bodily beating than usual and it worked.  I caught up with Clay and we arrived at Snoqualmie pass around 3pm, more than 27 miles in less than ten hours.  We also ran into an old friend, Hawkeye, who passed by us while we gorged on gas station food.  We all left the gas station and made our way to the local hotel and pancake house where we found a number of other friends, including Calf and Analog.  By the time Granite had arrived from Seattle to pick me up, I felt somewhat sad, because I knew that zeroing two or three days in Seattle would mean that I would not see most of the people I had gotten to know so well unless we met again after our hikes were finished. 

Oddball in Washington: Cascade Locks to White Pass

The Knife Edge, Goat Rocks Wilderness

I spent three days in Cascade Locks resting and hoping the heat wave I was in would calm down before I started Washington.  Unfortunately for me, the heat did not die down.  I set off regardless; after all I have been through worse.

That little heat wave made my first day in Washington somewhat miserable.  The easy Oregon terrain was officially gone.  My first section of Washington was long and even at 25-miles per day I still had to carry six days of food to get my rear to White Pass, and lots of this first stretch was also very exposed to the sun.  The heat, along with my pack weight, and the return of difficult terrain, helped make me feel incredibly worn out.  The high temperatures also facilitated a rather disgusting grey haze that ruined what should have been wonderful views of Table Mountain.  I was happy to be done when I reached Rock Creek that first day but I also found myself robbed of good sleep.  Even with the sun setting and with my choice of sleeping in the open near the creek, it was just too hot for me to sleep comfortably.

Thick growth near Panther Creek

A single bad night of sleep can often ruin an entire week’s hiking schedule.  I overslept that first night and got a late start on the second day.  The heat had noticeably died down and—much to my surprise—even with my late start (8am) I found myself enjoying a couple of hours of hiking through morning fog.  It was a definite improvement over the previous day and I hiked through the entire remainder of the morning without a break until I reached Wind River, where I found myself noticeably hungrier than usual.  It was there I realized that Oregon had spoiled me, there were so many places to resupply that I rarely had more than a couple days worth of food in my pack.  I had forgotten what six or seven days of food felt like and how much more difficult that weight could make already difficult terrain   In the afternoon I found myself having to break every four or five miles because of my grumbling stomach, it was both robbing me of my strength and annoying me.  It was, at the least, a beautiful section.  The sections of the PCT that traverse near and over Panther Creek are incredibly green with tall moss covered trees amongst thick fields of ferns.  In essence, there was a green canopy far above my head and another one just below my knees. I made matters worse though by stopping often to take pictures.  I also made the mistake of constantly skipping water sources and telling myself, “I’ll grab water at the next source.”  When the sun finally set I was without water and dry camping was out of the question unless I wanted to go to sleep hungry.  I donned a headlamp, quickened my pace, and cursed the gradually decreasing number of hours of sunlight I had to work with each day.  I stopped when I found my destination—a gully with a spring.  I gathered a few quarts from the spring, tossed my ground mat and sleeping bag on the ground, made dinner, ate, scribbled some notes in my journal, and went to sleep.

Sleeping in the open that night turned out to be a horrible idea.  I was tired, stubborn, and in such a strong habit of not using my tent unless mosquitoes told me otherwise, that I did not take the thick cloud cover above me seriously.  I was constantly awoken every hour or so by the heavy sounds of thunder.  Each time I awoke, I noticed a complete absence of stars.  I should have had the discipline to get out of my sleeping bag and set up my tent first time I made that observation.  Instead, in my various half-awaken conditions of denial, I reasoned that the storm would not produce any precipitation and would blow over me while I calmly slept.  Four hours into this nonsense it started to rain.  I set up my tent in a matter of minutes but by then I had lost too many good hours of sleep.  Like the previous day, I awoke still exhausted from the previous day and from a lack of sleep.  When I finally succeeded in getting myself out of camp and back on trail I put in my headphones, listened to eleven straight hours of Oregon Public Radio, and mindlessly moved myself north until I reached the outlet of Big Mosquito Lake.  Here I proclaimed the area “good enough,” stepped on a large patch of two-foot tall blades of grass, pitched my tent, ate, and fell asleep while writing in my journal.

Mount Adams Glacier

Despite the large bumps on the ground from my hastily constructed campsite I slept like a baby.  Exhaustion can eventually be quite beneficial, one can sleep on anything.  Between that night’s great sleep and having consumed half my food weight by that morning, I felt great.  It was around here I felt my real energy returning.  From here out I assumed a new pace—ten to fifteen miles between breaks.  It felt great.  I would hike at a causal 2 ½ mile per hour pace and stop every four to six hours.  The timing could not have been better too.  Washington finally began to assume the form I envisioned—green meadows saturated with vibrantly colored flowers, tall snow-capped mountains, and giant glaciers.  When Mount Adams came into view I completely lost track of time and failed to notice even my hunger pangs as the trail slowly traveled around it; I constantly had my head turned over my right shoulder and had a near-permanent smile on my face.  I forgot that day I was trying to get to get White Pass, much less Canada.  I was just happy to be there.  At the end of the day I found myself fording a silt-soaked Lewis River.  Like my previous ford, the river was swollen with fresh snow-melt, was ice cold, and impossible to see the bottom of at any location.  After about half an hour of trial and error, I found a location I could ford with a reasonable degree of safety.  Once I was across I spent another half hour trying to regain some feeling and warmth back in my feet.  I had the energy to hike another mile or so and set up camp near a large pond.  The soft beach-like sand was too good to pass up.  I couldn't have found better ground to sleep upon.

Rainier comes into view

I was sad when Mount Adams was no longer in view.  For some time the following day I kept turning around after navigating around new hill tops, ridges, or valleys in the hope that there would be some unforeseen opening with a view more spectacular than the last.  It never happened though.  The trail returned to monotonous and lackluster dry forest with the exception of a small section that afford me a stunning  distant view of Mount Rainier, a prelude for tomorrow I told myself.  I continued hiking lengthy stretches for four to five hours at a time and generally took my breaks when I was hungry or bored.  During these breaks I also started to appreciate how much damage my appetite had done to my food during those first three days.  I had reasoned that it was okay to eat more early on because I was carrying more weight and that as my pack weight lessened I would need less food.  My metabolism did not agree with this line of reasoning and demanded as much food as I had been eating before.  I was running out of food and found myself trying to ration out my gorp and jar of peanut butter as best as I could.  I would have enough food for breakfasts and dinners but I realized that I was going to have to hike hungry during some point in each of the subsequent afternoons until I reached White Pass.  I was able to supplement my diet to a certain degree with a large number of huckleberries along the trail.  However, I found that picking enough to satisfy my hunger took away precious hours of sunlight.  More often than not I chose to forgo collecting enough food so I could take advantage of as much daylight as possible to hike in. 

Hiking  and climbing over Cispus Pass in the evening

The terrain returned to its Adamsesque splendor just before Cispus Pass but I was regrettably running out of light and could not enjoy the scenery as much as I would have liked to.  I did have a certain amount of fun climbing over a very large block of icy snow twice my height to get to the pass in the early hours of the evening.  I did my best find the path of least resistance with my headlamp, kick in steps, balance myself with my trekking poles, and then walk along the top until I found the Pass.  It was cold, I was short on time, but I nonetheless took a few minutes to stand there and look around in the darkness.  The only visible things were the faint outlines of rock and trees on the horizon and the various large patches of white snow that remained on the ridges.  I continued in the dark until I found a creek, and a reasonable place that afforded me both flat ground and some protection from the cold evening wind.

I woke up the next morning covered in a thin layer of ice and frost.  I probably would have hid in my sleeping bag for an hour or two because of the morning cold but the motivation of a nearby town can truly make short work of my often cold morning indolence.  I hid in my sleeping bag only long enough to make and stomach my disgusting oatmeal calories, and drink my increasingly addictive instant hot coffee and hot coco mix.  Shortly after returning to trail I spotted a giant and hideous orange dome a half a mile or so ahead of me.  I found myself confused until I was close enough; it was a regular camper’s tent.  After this little revelation, it occurred to me, I had not seen a single person since I left Cascade Locks.  Even though I would see a number of tents scattered throughout this area, I would not see a human face until I arrived at the pass.  These occupants were perfectly content to sleep in during these early horus and wait until the air slowly began to regain some warmth.

Self-portrait with a final view of Mount Adams in the background 

After coming out of this high valley I entered into an area that would become one of my favorite segments on the entire PCT—Goat Rocks.  The entire area was absolutely beautiful.  Early on I enjoyed large and flat meadows filled with red, white, and violet flowers; and tucked just below towering snow-capped peaks.  To the south, Mount Adams returned for one final and remarkable view.  Just below the meadows to the southwest were vast seas of white clouds that hid other meadows and valleys that I imagined were just as scenic.  Amongst the meadows I was in were a series of miniature forests, patches of a few dozen evergreens isolated from each other like little green islands.  These meadows eventually gave way to snowfields that quickly gave way to a walk along a narrow ridgeline just above a giant valley.  I went over this ridgeline while the valley was covered in clouds and it reminded me of a giant brown bowl full of sugar with a giant piece of white chocolate—Mount Rainier—resting on the top.  The supreme architect of the universe must have had a sweet tooth when he made Goat Rocks.  I stopped often, took many pictures, and for the first time in a very long time—I stopped to sit and soak in the view.

The "sugar bowl" with Rainier off in the distance

I was partially annoyed with how brutal most of the terrain in Goat Rocks was, there was a considerable amounts of layers of loose, smooth, and flat rocks that composed of the trail here.  In order to avoid slipping and falling, I moved slowly and carefully.  At the same time though, I was enjoying the views even more than I enjoyed my walk around Adams; I would not have wanted to rush through this area anyway.  Goat Rocks Wilderness continued all the way until White Pass, but most of the magnificence ceased once my giant brown bowl of sugar was out of view.  The terrain slowly became kinder to my feet but the trade off was less beauty for my eyes.  I hiked through break alpine creeklet-infested flats until they gave way to the boring kind of forest I’d come accustomed to.

I did not know what to expect at White Pass.  For whatever reason I had been imagining a small mountain town, but in reality, what awaited me at White Pass was a closed ski resort area with a gas station.  I arrived at 4:53pm.  Seven minutes before the deceivingly-named gas station, the “Cracker Barrel Store,” (which held my resupply package) should have closed.  Alas though, they closed early that day.  My phone was dead, I was completely out of food, and I instantly felt crushed.  If someone offered me a cigarette right there and then I would have taking up smoking again.  Luckily for me, after a brief search, I found an outlet on one of the sides of the building, charged my phone, texted a friend who looked up the towns that were nearest to me, and then after two hours with my thumb out, someone picked me up and dropped me off in Packwood.  I immediately set about securing three things—a hotel room, a dinner with as many fatty calories as possible, and beer.

Oddball in Oregon: Willamette Pass to Cascade Locks

Sunset near the western base of the Middle Sister

Out of Willamette Pass I was consumed by more miles of endless forest, although I found that hiking often with others made it more tolerable and more fun.  Analog and I shared many of these miles; we stopped every five or six miles and these short discussion-laden breaks at times made Oregon even somewhat comical.  

Other times we shared the time with other hikers.  Sometimes those breaks were with another thru-hiker named Hono.  Hono is a very easy-going, friendly hiker, who forgoes the luxury of carrying an iPod.  Instead of carrying music, he sings on the trail, and his songs can be both pleasant and humorous to hear.  Charlton Lake broke up the giant green canopy, offered a great place to consume copious amounts of humus and crackers, wash my socks, and meet another hiker—Calf.  Calf knew Analog from some previous miles but it was the first time I met him.  He’s a German, a veteran thru-hiker of the 2100-mile long Appalachian Trail, a great guy to hike with, in some strange way reminds me of a Santa Claus (if Santa Claus were super-fit), and since his calves are each about the size of my head, his trail name is quite fitting.  

Along with Clay, we all had the pleasure of hiking through a thunder and lightning storm towards the end of that first day out.  I removed my headphones for those last few hours and simply enjoyed the sound of the storm.  Rain soon followed and shortly after each of us were setting up our tents near Horseshoe Lake.  From our tents we ate our dinners, drank hot beverages if we had them, and conversed by shouting through our tents. Who could ask for better neighbors, weather, and a place to camp? I later learned that that lightning storm caused fires and that we managed to stay just ahead of them.

Fire damaged section near Elk Lake

Clay and Hono on
"classic" trail in Oregon

There were wonderful occasions where Oregon also offered a great deal of variety along the trail—meadows, tall forests, and numerous little hills and dales to be rounded and visited.  These days consisted often of, especially when the terrain was flat, what I like to refer to as “classic backpacking,” because both the environment and the ease were generally what an average person imagines when they think about backpacking. 

When the classics ceased they were replaced with old burnt out sections near Elk Lake.  On a cool day with scattered clouds, this burnt forest is very beautiful.  When I went through, the skies were a rich hue of blue, the spread of clouds were white, light, and fluffy; the trees were very grey and very dead, and they looked more like stone pillars or perhaps even like the columns of some great ruin; and just below all of this was the beginning of new life, saplings that would eventually bring down and claim those grey pillars for their own nourishment.

Where there were not great grey pylons or classics, there were the likes of Three Sisters and its white gold.  I was constantly turning my head to view these three great volcanic peaks.  Between Oregon’s late and heavy snow fall, and my schedule, the timing was perfect.  There was just enough snow that the beauty of the range was enhanced but there also was not quite enough to slow my feet too much.  All of us arrived at the base of the Sisters somewhat late in the day and even though we still had more miles to hike, it was a perfect place to sit in the snow and enjoy an incredible sunset before we set off to search for a relatively dry and snow-free spot of earth to camp on for the evening.

Early morning west of the North Sister and just south of Obsidian Falls

2000 Miles!

Following the Three Sisters area the trail took me through the beautiful Obsidian Falls.  I honestly did not find the waterfall very impressive but what did capture my attention were the obsidian rocks which covered the ground surrounding the trail.  These small golf-ball sized chunks were not very heavy,  were as dark as the night, and as smooth as glass.  It was the first time I’d seen and felt rocks like this.

Eventually all those wonderful little rocks, that beautiful snow, and those marvelous views of the Sisters gave way to a vengeful return of lava rocks before and after McKenzie Pass.  I hated these lava rocks.  Miles and miles of loose black lava rocks made my trekking poles absolutely worthless, ruined the soles of my boots, and twisted both of my ankles.  I did a lot of sighing around here.  When it did end, the trail took me through a large and dry burnt out area again.  Temperature makes a big difference.  Whereas I loved walking through the burnt out and cool section around Elk Lake, the intensive heat that accompanied the day through here made the absence of shade a miserable experience.

Towards the end of the day at least I found excitement when I passed the 2000-mile marker and made it to Big Lake Youth Camp.  My late-afternoon stop there was wonderful.  The camp held a resupply package for me, offered me a free shower and laundry, and allowed myself and all the other thru-hikers to partake in one of their dinners—chocolate-chip pancakes, tater-tots, fresh fruit, and ice cream.  It would seem that a menu designed by Seventh-day Adventist children is also perfect for thru-hikers.  It was also refreshing to be around so many kind and courteous people.

Great for the eyes, painful for the feet.  Lava rocks near McKenzie pass

After a nero day in Bend—Analog, Clay, Calf, and I continued through a mostly mosquito-free Oregon, it was a rather uplifting revelation once I realized it had been awhile since I was bitten by one of those little monsters.  The trail brought us through some very unique rock formations like Three Fingered Jack and then around slowly around a scenic Mount Jefferson. 

I loved Jefferson.  When Analog and I finally came upon it, the south-eastern approach was covered in a field of snow.  It was difficult to walk on, but I am a sucker for this kind of terrain and loved just being in it.  Once were upon its north side, we could see the glaciers that rest upon Jefferson.  Glaciers in Oregon; I would have never thought.  The day around Jefferson ended with a brief stop in Olallie Lake Resort.  None of us needed a resupply but who turns down beer and chips?  It was nice sitting around a picnic table with everyone and enjoying some trail suds.

North side of Mount Jefferson

Leaving Olallie Lake I enjoyed the flattest sections of trail I had ever been on, on the PCT.  The trail was so flat that I found a new opportunity to do something new to help pass the time—reading.  The first day out of Olallie I must have read a third of an entire Foreign Affairs journal.  I only stopped occasionally whenever I found Clay collecting huckleberries.  These little berries were always quite a treat and I suspect for most of the remainder of Oregon my hands and lips were chronically stained from their blue juices.  I greedily ate them by the handful.  They were not as sweet as the blackberries around Seiad Valley, but they were far easier to collect which meant I could enjoy a far greater volume.  Analog, Clay and I ended our day after Olallie Lake at Clackamas Lake. 

At Clackamas Lake we found a very large number of weekend campers and true to thru-hiker form we took advantage of this.  Clay and I walked around looking slightly more beat than we really were, looked for excuses to initiate conversation with other people, and this paid off twice.  One family gave us bananas and another group of campers invited Clay and I to eat with them by their campfire.  When Clay and I joined them, Analog had also caught up and was able to enjoy the visit with us.  At this fire we found ourselves being spoiled by a group of six young college-aged Christians.  They wanted to hear about our hike and had extra food.  We were more than happy to share some stories while eating their crackers, cheese, hot dogs, and cookies.  They also made us “banana boats” towards the end of the evening.  These were whole bananas stuffed with chocolate and marshmallows, wrapped in foil, and cooked in their campfire.  What a treat.  The kindness of others is very infectious.  All of us were feeling very beat and worn, but after visiting these folks there was no way any of us could go to sleep grumpy.

The rest of Oregon felt great.  Not only were the final days exciting by virtue of the fact that I was almost done with Oregon, the trail went through some very unique, exciting, and beautiful areas.  After Clackamas Lake I spent more time zoning out, reading while hiking, and not paying attention to much of anything until Mount Hood came into view.  Like Jefferson it has glaciers and much of the side of the mountain that faces the PCT was covered in snow.  All around the surrounding area, brilliant and bright violet lupines were in bloom and they did an excellent job complimenting this already gorgeous mountain.

Mt Hood, glaciers, and lupine

Mount Hood was also a nice place because of Timberline Lodge.  A lodge famous for skiing as well as being used for the exterior shots of the hotel in The Shining.  It is not often one sees something like this on the trail.  Getting up to the lodge was a pain for the last couple of miles though.  The trail was uphill and the soil was so soft I felt that I was walking inside of giant ashtray.  To be so close to the lodge, my resupply, beer, and fatty foods and not being able to get there quickly was somewhat cruel.  I arrived at the Wy' East store moody but I found my day instantly improved when I claimed my resupply package.  The young lady behind the counter was so happy, so cheerful, and so talkative I found myself instantly feeling almost as happy as her.  

When I found Clay and Analog, we made our way to the restaurant in Timberline Lodge where we met another thru-hiker, Redbeard.  Redbeard, like his name suggests has a red beard.  He is also a former Air Force navigator and air liaison officer.  It is amazing how many different types of personalities and backgrounds there are that become attracted to this trail and to thru-hiking in general.  The restaurant was disappointingly overpriced and none of us seemed inclined to order more than bread or soup.  I do love to eat but something about a twenty-dollar slice of meatloaf fails to excite my stomach.  At least the beer was well priced and delicious. 

Morning coffee with (left to right) Hawkeye, Clay, and Analog  at the Timberline Lodge just before the breakfast buffet

Everyone left Timberline Lodge late the following morning.   Dinner and lunch may be overpriced but Timberline definitely knows how to do a breakfast buffet.  For less than the cost of a pretentious meat loaf, one can stuff oneself silly on eggs, potatoes, beef, pork, sausages, breads, cheeses, fruit, waffles, muffins and pastries.  I would have been an idiot not to have eaten several breakfasts that morning.  The buffet did unfortunately result in me getting a late start and I paid for this later.  

Oregon’s record snowfall showed itself when I found myself having to ford a large snowmelt creek later that day.  The silt in the creek made it difficult to see how deep it was anywhere.  So, after removing my boots I found myself testing different spots up and down the creek by trial and error; while also trying desperately to hear what Clay was yelling across the loud creek.  Eventually I found a place where I could cross with relative ease.  It took me half an hour to find this place to cross.  After crossing Clay moved on, I waited until I regained warmth and feeling in my feet, and while doing so another hiker—Hawkeye—walked right across a high log crossing that both Clay and I looked at, thought was not safe, and opted not to even try.  I found myself hiking in the darkness at the end of the day and stopped when I found Hawkeye and Clay.  A flat abandoned jeep road was good enough for that evening's campsite.

Myself at Tunnel Falls, Eagle Creek Trail

Upon leaving the old jeep road camp all of us opted to leave the Pacific Crest Trail and take the Eagle Creek Trail to Cascade Locks.  It was totally worth it.  Eagle Creek brought us back into a green canopy that I would normally dislike but I couldn’t help but enjoy how incredibly green and wet it was; it was like being in a rain forest.  The Eagle Creek Trail also had a good number of very tall and visually stunning waterfalls, pools, cliffs, and deep creeks.  Tunnel falls was the most impressive of any of the falls I have seen on this hike thus far, especially because it had a thirty-foot long tunnel where the trail went behind the falls.  Eagle Creek was a great way to finish Oregon.  Once we arrived in Cascade Locks Clay and I immediately went to find ourselves some burgers.

Oddball in Oregon: Ashland to Willamette Pass

Dusk at a campsite on unnamed cliff northeast of Tipsoo Peak, near Mount Thielsen

Oregon was brutal and beautiful.  At times the trail loved to play games with my mind by burying me in endless miles of forest with no views, no water, and offered me very little sense of direction.  Other times the trail seemingly took delight in the destruction of my feet with generous amounts of large, loose, sharp, and ever-present volcanic rock.  When Oregon was not trying its best to make my life a living hell it was a genuine master of rewards offering stunning views and providing some of snow fun that the high Sierras simply did not offer this year.

Before I even left Ashland I had decided I would accept a personal challenge of either attempting to do Oregon in two weeks or at the very least doing about thirty-miles or so a day.  Oregon was perfect for this sort of madness.  Oregon's section of the PCT has few large climbs, much of the trail is quite flat, and resupply points are at comfortable distances apart from either other—a reality that one’s shoulders, back, knees, and feet are easily grateful for.

Lava south of Brown Mountain

At first southern Oregon looked remarkably like Northern California, go figure.  I was excited about being on new trail for the first time since I started the PCT in 2010 at the southern terminus, but the trail itself was far from exciting.  It was flat, hot, dry, and exposed.  Despite my newfound badass status, I also felt behind.  I was hiking with Reststop, Dude, Viper, Croation, NotaChance, and Aquaman and I was usually the last to arrive at a common break site and the last to leave it.  My first day out of Ashland I did 31.7 miles but I also finished at 9:30 in the evening, about an hour after they did.  This would also be the last day I would see most of these hikers, they were going to be averaging far more per day than I could.

Somewhere in the second day “Oregon” kicked in.  The trail remained dry and most of the water was found off-trail, although at times off-trail locations like the Brown Mountain Shelter were very nice detours.  It was also around here that I got my first taste of walking on long and continuous stretches of volcanic rock.  My feet had been on it before in California near Mt. Lassen but not for any length that lasted for long; here this rock was present for hours on end.  The colors that came with this terrain were quite unique in themselves—sharply differentiated black and red on the ground and a kinder separation of blues and greens upon the sky—and I took some comfort in knowing that what is hard on the feet is kind on the eyes.  It was also this segment that I was acquainted with the new mosquitoes that came with this territory.  Oregon's mosquitoes seemed infinitely worse than anything that ever managed to take my blood in California.  They were faster, more persistent, and the irritation from each bite (even if left unscratched) seemed to last all day.  It always seemed that the worst of California's mosquitoes could be outrun, just keep moving and you'll be fine.  Not there.  Oregon's mosquitoes will eat you even if you're hiking your fastest and they will follow you with a vengeance all day.

Crater Lake view from Rim Village

Breaks from those mosquitoes seemed few and far between and the dryness of this part of Oregon felt like some kind of punishment, I didn’t have to carry a lot of food but the water sources were so far apart that I found myself carrying a nice amount of water weight for most of these days.  My first great reward came after I broke camp in the Oregon Desert (yes, Oregon has wooded deserts somehow).  I woke up from the sound of a crashing tree, took advantage of my racing heartbeat and packed up fast, and then after making my way down to Mazama Village— for an early lunch, a resupply package pick-up, and an extensive amount of socializing with other thru-hikers—I climbed up to Rim Village where a long afternoon of hundreds of views of Crater Lake began.  About 7,700 years ago Mount Mazama erupted, collapsed, and created a basin that holds 4.6 trillion gallons of water; and without saying, this bad boy is quite a sight.  Most people drive out here, have a look, grab a burger, buy a t-shirt, and leave.  I like to think that sore feet, mosquito bites, salt-encrusted clothing, sun burnt skin, and a huge appetite make Crater Lake more magnificent.  Not only does it somehow justify the path the PCT has chosen for me to take, in a way I feel like I earned it.

Approaching Mount Thielsen

The trail after Crater Lake was frustratingly dry for about twenty-six miles.  I did not enjoy having a fresh resupply in my pack and also having to carry enough water for this long dry stretch.  It was also this section of Oregon where the forest started consuming me.  For several miles at a time I was denied vistas, water, and terrain features.  Even with maps, knowing where exactly one was at was generally a matter of guesswork from one’s assumed pace multiplied by the number of hours hiked.  Like certain sections in Northern California I found myself becoming bored with my music and running out of things to think about.  The time, more often than not, dragged on.  It is because of days like this on the PCT that a place like Mount Thielsen, for me, became a place of infinite beauty. Aside from simply being a sight to behold, it was to one’s eyes what silence can be after hours and hours of defining silence.  One cannot help but smile and enjoy every step where and when this beautiful mountain is in view.  It also certainly did not hurt that the last couple of miles to Thielsen Creek were covered in snow and it was there that the long dry stretch ended.  The water from this snowmelt creek was also especially crisp, refreshing, and delicious.  Additionally, I had the pleasure of enjoying Mount Thielsen, its creek, and many miles with friends—Analog and Rattlebee.   A little further down the trail after the creek I also had the unique opportunity to camp at the edge of a cliff with a far and spectacular view.  The sunset that day, like Thielsen, made all the difficulties of getting their worth it.

One has to enjoy places like Mount Thielsen because there is not much to look in the following days.  The water on the trail remains elusive and the annoyance that accompanied knowing that the next water source was constantly off trail meant that I frequently decided to go thirsty and promise myself I’d get water at the next source, a promise that repeated itself often.  Thanks to the trail angel extraordinaire, Lloyd Gust, that mindset did not become my undoing.  At Windigo Pass there was a surprise water cache that Analog, Rattlebee, and I drank from to hold us over until Summit Lake.  The trail to Summit Lake was the worst mosquito habitat that I have encountered anywhere on the PCT.  I found myself eventually caving in and donning a headnet and gloves despite the heat.  And still, a few mosquitoes found a way to get inside of my headnet and through my gloves.  Not every day on the PCT gets to be a good one; I spent those last hours of that day screaming obscenities while being eaten alive and it accomplished nothing except making those endless miles of view-less forest feel even longer.

Snow-covered trail east of Diamond Peak in Willamette National Forest

Analog with Willamette's finest

I got a break from those merciless miniature monsters the following morning when the trail, again, became covered in snow for several miles.  I found the colors here, like the area around Brown Mountain, quite breathtaking.  Here the mountain ridges were volcanic black, the ground snow white, and a thick and jagged layer of green trees separated the two.  The water tasted great, there were a few places to glissade at, and the cool breeze that came over the snow and then upon my face was intoxicating.  The moment ended when the snow melted and I had to begin looking for my spur trail to Shelter Cove for my next resupply. I goofed, got lost, added an extra couple of miles to my day, but arrived at Shelter Cove in time to collect a package, repack my pack, drink a cold soda, and listen to Analog tell me about a place with burgers, beer, and ice cream—Willamette Pass Resort.  We got back on trail, crossed the pass, and then walked on the highway for a few minutes to get to promise land.  Stuffing oneself silly rarely feels so good.  Willamette Pass was also a nice location to wait the afternoon heat out, meet up with other friends like Clay and Hono, and watch the Olympics.  After a great meal, delicious beers, and copious amounts of ice cream (as well as substantial amount of laughing from watching Olympic speed-walking) we knocked out a few more miles on the trail and spent the night in the Maiden Peak Shelter.  Sleeping on a bench never felt so good.