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| Welcome indeed |
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| Stehekin River |
Stehekin was nice. Brian and I did not get our omelets and beer
combination but we definitely got beer accompanied with burgers. The bakery was the most amazing place in
town. The bus we hopped on from the trailhead
made a stop there and when we arrived, I do believe it was the fastest I
had ever disembarked from any bus in my life.
Upon exiting the bus, my beloved olfactory glands were immediately
battered with the scents of hundreds of delicious baked goods. Inside I found myself overwhelmed with
choices and almost stuttering when I made my impulsive choices for the employee
taking my order, “one of those giant ham and swiss things and one of those big
loaves of sourdough!” When asked if I
wanted a free cookie, there was no silence between the question and my exuberant
acceptance. I packed the loaf of
sourdough in my pack and joyfully ate the other items within minutes. I only regret not ordering a fourth or fifth
item. I hear their pie-sized cinnamon
rolls are divine; another time in the future perhaps? Our trip to the post office in Stehekin was
quite an experience as well. The local postmaster
was visually a very memorable man with long grey hair, a large white beard, an eye patch,
and a bright red shirt with Laotion writing that he translated for us, “I’m a
stupid American.” The real treat at the
post office was scene familiar to me but a must see and experience that had yet to be observed by
my journalist friend. A hiker came in
front of the post office—where we many of were in line to claim our resupply
packages—held up a box and asked “does anyone need any of this?” After placing the box upon the ground, the
dozen or so of us in line descended upon it and ravaged it like crazed animals. The contents, with the exception of the
non-edibles, were gone within seconds.
We kept our time in Stehekin
short; resupplied, put some weight back on, drank up, and then got back on
trail. The trail immediately after
Stehekin was quite striking. Like the
immediate area that preceded the town, this stretch was most notable for the
deep gorge that housed the powerful Stehekin River. The temperatures were nice, the air moist and cool, and the sounds of the river moving below were all very relaxing. North Cascades National Park must be perfect
for short trips and day hikes, I found myself often curious where all the other
side trails went and what kinds of views they provided. Upon reaching North Fork Camp we set camp
during a light rain. Before the rain fall became too strong the
two of us stood around a large campfire and shared our snacks—some of the sourdough,
some of the Nutella I scored from the split-second box raid at the post office, a little bit of wine we picked up in town, and summer sausage. I finished my evening
with some herbal tea and fell asleep to the sound of rain crashing down upon my
tent.
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| Northern Washington looks a little like southern California, Brian on Cutthroat Pass |
As soon as daylight permitted we
broke camp the following morning, caffeinated up, and then hit the trail. This was the first morning on the trail that
I needed to hike with my down jacket; it was very cold, even with the heat that
my body was producing from the exercise.
The trail was also covered in a fine layer of fog from the cloud morning
cloud cover; it immediately evoked memories of what mornings in Washington were
like in the first couple of weeks. I
loved it. By the time the clouds had finally evaporated we were descending to Rainy Pass. At this little highway crossing we basked in
the sun with some other hikers we met just before and again in Stehekin. Once we had enough of the sun we hopped back
on the trail and I watched in amazement as northern Washington slowly, but
surely, began to resemble southern California.
The trees thinned out, the distant mountains looked more brown and more
bare, the soil below my feet slowly turned into a powdery light brown dust, and
even the shrubs took on a more high desert like appearance than something I
would have expected this far north. This
southern California-like appearance was most prominent once we were atop
Cutthroat Pass. The name and appearance
reminded me of something from an old spaghetti western too. Just around Cutthroat I was surprised again. There was not much of it remaining but on the lee side of the ridge there was evidence of fresh snowfall, not
much, but just enough to remind me that we were not too far from the beginning of
Washington’s snow season. For the
remainder of the day Brian and I traversed slowly over a series of additional
passes like Granite and Methow, and our discussions transformed like the
terrain around us. Where they were once
about the army we had served in, this day they transformed into ones about food. Both of us like to cook in our normal lives
and were exchanging recipe ideas. The
apex of these conversations rested with an entrée idea that became my obsession
until I made it off-trail—a multi-layered chili and cornbread style cobbler served
in individual tiny pie tins (which I am proud to state I pulled off after returning
home). We hiked with the last amounts of
sunlight and about a half-hour in darkness until we reached Willis Camp. Again we built a fire, shared food, and went
to bed very satisfied, especially with our Nutella and graham cracker deserts.
The following day was not nearly
as eventful. The weather was great and
there were numerous meadows to enjoy but I sometimes found myself disappointed with
the trail. Glacier Pass, for example,
had no glaciers. The trail this day took
on anther southern California attribute—a water shortage (at least according to
the data we had to work with). After
going over the Glacier Pass, we went a little off trail to what flow remained
from an old snow-melt creek to hydrate ourselves and fill our water containers before the dry stretch that
lay ahead of us. The area rested in a
bowl covered in soft green grass. It was
a perfect place to take a break and to begin a ritual we would continue until
we were done with the PCT—afternoon coffee breaks. Brian had brought real coffee and had a French
press attachment for his cooking pot. My
usual combination of cheap instant coffee and hot coco had nothing on this
stuff, it was quite a pleasure for my taste buds. Once
we arrived at Harts Pass we ran into about six other thru-hikers who were
occupying a campsite that had been reserved by a trail angel who wasn't there yet. We all conversed a little but more
importantly, we planned. This would be
the first location on the trail, after we turned around from the border, where
we could get a ride back into civilization.
Most of these other hikers shared the same plan as I, and it made me
feel more confident that finishing at Harts Pass would be possible. Camping also looked problematic from here
out. According to the data I had and the
maps everyone else had, camping was spare, and the first available place where
we could stay at without needing to hike well into the evening was between
Windy and Foggy Pass. When we arrived
there I was somewhat annoyed. The area’s two camping sites were occupied. I called out to one and asked if there was
space down the spur trail from theirs and I was told no. The second I approached and was given
directions to three or four “great spots” that were actually hills littered
with holes and rocks. Brian and I gave up on trying to find good ground and camped
next to the trail on the only spot we could reasonably find a flat parcel of earth.
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| At the Northern Terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail on the Canadian border. |
After climbing over the ridge
above us the next morning I realized the group of campers I asked had lied to
us, there was plenty of space down the spur trail, I guess they just did not
want us walking through. This close to
Canada, I did not care. In fact, most of this day went by very quickly and I was
happy to be surprised with a number of springs that were supposed to be
dry, as well as a number of campground that weren't on everyone's maps. We had already carried water anticipating
a dry stretch, but this meant we did not have to carry as much on our
return. We climbed up and down a few
forest-covered passes and then slowly climbed down the prominent ridge just
about Hopkins Lake. We skipped the lake
and its water and opted to continue towards the real goal—Canada. Reaching the border that day, I am still not
entirely sure how I felt even to this day. The whole thing
felt somewhere between surreal and anticlimactic. In a way it reminded me of the scene from
Forest Gump when he abruptly decides to stop running in the middle of Monument
Valley and go home. I was excited to
finally be there, this was after all a hike that I attempted in 2010, had not
finished, and after starting over again this year, I had finally finished. I wanted this more than anything. At the same time though, I did not want it to
end. If it could have been possible, I
would have kept going. I had actually
thought often during my thru-hike about hoping on the Pacific Northwest Trail and going to the
Pacific Ocean to the west or perhaps Glacier National Park in Montana to the
east after finishing the PCT. It would have bled my savings dry
though and I knew I had to at some point go home and return to the real
world. Perhaps that was where the problem
rest, the “real” world, since I started this was the trail and I liked
that. That night we camped in Canada,
near Castle Creek, with a dozen or so other hikers and began the process of
yogi-ing food off those who were not turning around to head back to Harts
Pass. I might have been done with my
thru-hike, but I was at least going to spent about thirty more miles on the PCT
to get back to an American road.
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| One last sunset on the the Pacific Crest Trail |
The next day I was no longer a
thru-hiker. I was a filthy sound-bound
section hiker hiking from the Canadian border to Hart’s Pass. At the monument Brian and I met a thru-hiker
who amazed us, he was carrying an insane amount of extra food—several servings
of mashed potatoes, gravy, salt, pepper, tortillas, Cliff bars, and extra
cheese. We added it to what food we
gathered from last night’s crowd, thanked him, and headed south. We camped that night at the same exact
location we camped at before, in between Windy and Foggy Pass. This time though claimed the location our
lying neighbors had occupied two nights before and cooked everything we had—all the mashed
potatoes, all the gravy, and all the cheese in one pot; as well as a dehydrated
hamburger meal Brian still had that we combined with our yogi’ed tortillas and some remaining chili powder I had to make burritos.
It was the fullest and most satisfied I had ever been on the trail, so many carbohydrates
for so few miles the following day.
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| Serpent Slayer (center) and this trail magic at Harts Pass |
It was nice sleeping in the next
day and when we arrived at Harts Pass we were treated to some amazing
trail magic. A trail angel named Serpent
Slayer had for the past several years been coming to Harts Pass for a couple
weekends a year to camp and have cookouts for PCT hikers. When we arrived there
we were spoiled with not only good company but steaks, sausages, bacon, and
beer. My stomach could not have asked for
a better way to finish. An hour later,
Brian and I met again with Lloyd Hensrude.
Lloyd and his mother had driven a couple of hours to the pass to pick us
up and take us back to civilization, which included showers and a wonder pot
roast dinner at Lloyd’s parent’s home.
Before I knew it, I was in Seattle wondering what I was supposed to do next.
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