indie's Adventures on the Pacific Crest Trail 2010

Anyone who has ever stood on the wedding altar, exchanging vows and rings, might be familiar with the feeling of nervous excitement that comes with making a lifelong commitment.  My jitters were mired in the prospect of being wed to a swath of dirt four feet wide and 2653 miles long.  In my mind, though, the fine line between going for it, and doing so with cold feet, was a bit blurred.

The time on the clock read 5:15AM.  It was time to get up out of bed, and since I had barely managed to fall asleep, didn’t officially qualify for waking up. I was like a fish getting pan-fried; flipped over and over.  Allowing the alarm to sound was more ceremonial than anything. It officially meant if the show was going to get on the road, it had to get on the road.

Reality check:  You’re walking from Mexico to Canada.  Today.

I began a series of what would amount to ‘this is the last time I’m going to’- type of activities. Not in an absolute sense, and almost not even in a relative sense. I knew there would be faucets, cozy beds, showers, and toilets where I was going, but they’d be only occasionally enjoyed for the next five months. I hopped into the shower and tried to relish the feeling of warm water cascading down my forehead, over my face, and down my body. I hoped it would dissolve some of the anxiety I felt, right down the drain.

I had a good case of cottonmouth.  Cottonmouth is the ultimate betrayer of confidence.  The inside of my mouth was as dry as a package of desiccant. I pretended hard, so hard, to fool everyone and myself that I was confident and ready to embark on the adventure of a lifetime. I had done a pretty good job of fooling everyone, but I hadn’t convinced myself that I was ready. In a matter of hours, I would be dropped off at the Mexican border with nothing but the contents of my backpack, and my dubious confidence, to sustain me.  I swallowed this truth hard as I filled up my water bottles, one by one. The total nine liters I filled would have to last me until I reached the first creek or stream, possibly 17 miles away from my starting point. No problem. Now, my eyes and body language punctuated my sense of doubt with italics and underscores.  To make matters worse, Obie, with whom I’d been I’d bunked while in San Diego, filmed the anxiety-filled moments on video. Watching those videos I was assured that I had no future in show business.

To put my uncertainty and fear into perspective, I must share that I almost canned my trip even before it even began. Canned means CANCELLED.  It had been a heavy snow year, and snow totals were 160% above average. It had also been an uncharacteristically cold and rainy spring. The Sierra Nevadas were a complete winter wonderland with summer right around the corner. There was talk of Mammoth Ski Resort remaining open until July 4. Even in the San Jacinto Mountains, slightly northeast of San Diego, thru hiker that had passed through sternly warned that advanced navigational and mountaineering skills and equipment were still necessary. The San Jacintos were only about 3 weeks into the trip, which would allow little or no melt time. If Southern California was this impassable, what would the rugged oceans of mountains of the Sierra Nevada be like?

I had spent a couple of months planning my trip, researching and purchasing gear, and buying mountains of food and packing it in mail drop boxes that would be mailed to me by my parents via US Mail once on the trail. I had walked the sidewalked hills of suburban northern New Jersey in order to get in some mediocre fitness for the hike. And I had even flown to San Diego, fully intending to set out the PCT. But since I hadn’t officially left, there was still plenty of time to bail out, and I was going to take advantage of the opportunity to fully consider my options.

The Thursday before the Monday on which I set out, I actually shared with my parents, Zwen and George, my plan to scrap the trip. Not wanting to read my potential obituary, my parents were supportive of my returning home.  My younger brother, Stephen, who is much more level-headed and sensible than me, was equally supportive. Who was I trying to impress, anyway? Obie had a different agenda. He continued to relentlessly introduce me to his friends, neighbors, and waitresses and bartenders in San Diego, as his friend that “was going to walk from Mexico to Canada in a single season.”  I awkwardly dismissed each introduction. I insisted that I wasn’t sure if I was going or not. Ultimately, his misplaced confidence in me infected my psyche, enough to decide to just go for it. I could always bail in Idyllwild, Mile #176, if I needed to, I told myself.  Obie didn’t need to know my backup plan.

Goodbye Rainmaker shower head. Goodbye refrigerator. Goodbye computer. Goodbye four walls and floor. Having bade farewell to all the modern conveniences, I threw my backpack up onto my shoulders for the first time and went upstairs to the main floor of the Roy’s house, where Vinita, Obie’s wife, was already welcoming the my imminent send-off. Obie wanted to have a weigh-in; me with my backpack and supplies.  I didn’t protest. I was also curious of how much weight I had heaped upon my back. I stepped on the scale. With four days of food and ten liters of water, I had 43 pounds on my back. Subtract the weight of the water, the weight dropped to 23 pounds. Minus the food, my backpack weighed 19 pounds. Not too bad. Vinita gave me a solid goodbye hug. As I was leaving, Kira, the youngest of their three kids, managed to sleepwalk over to me and give me a neck hug. Sleepy-eyed and groggily, she said “Bye, Mr. Dan” as she instinctively trudged back to her room.

Outside, it was a downright chilly 51°F. I questioned the choice of packing only one semi-warm, two year-old merino wool long-sleeved shirt for insulation. After all, I only remembered the desert heat, which well exceeded 100°F in June of 1996. It couldn’t possibly be cold on the trail. No way.

The heat cranked in the car during the two hour drive to Campo, east of San Diego on Interstate 8. Obie, a techie at heart, set up our ‘electronics center’ in the minivan, which consisted of the GPS unit, multiple cellphone chargers, and camera battery chargers.  I stuffed an unprecedented four Sausage McMuffins at McDonalds in El Cajon.  This was the first sign of my going feral with appetite. I knew I would need every last calorie.  Systematically devouring the sandwiches was done without hesitation, arguably out of necessity.

Mellow hip-hop beats helped to soothe the transition the scenery from developed suburbs to California’s relatively unpopulated interior. Granite cliffs, silvery boulders, and the muted greens of the desert shrubs along the freeway were a dead giveaway of the type of scenery I would be passing through during the first few days.

Four lanes gave way to two as we took the exit for southbound Highway 94. My spirits were elevated upon seeing creeks flowing with water that I would have written off as ‘dry.’ We passed through the small settlements of Dulzura and Potrero before finally arriving in Campo, an unincorporated town, population 3,271. The PCT monument at Mile 0.0 was the final destination. The paved road ended and crossed onto sand. Obie eagerly jacked the Mercedes into 4-wheel drive to avoid getting stuck in a sandy rut. We took only one wrong turn in the two mile straight shot south, right up to the border fence separating the United States of America from Mexico. This was as far south as I could get to Mexico without actually crossing into Mexico. More importantly, this was where a monument marked the southern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail.

Two dirt roads, separated only by a waist-high barbed wire fence, pressed right up to the seemingly impenetrable corrugated tin marking the US-Mexico border. White and green US Border Patrol vehicles whizzed along the fence corridor, leaving clouds of dust in their wake. We had the spot to ourselves. Conditions were optimal for a full-fledged photo and video shoot, which lasted at least an hour. There was a lot to capture. On the border fence itself, the numbers 36 to 44 were crudely spray-painted in sequential order, on the panels erected by “Team Engineer- Builders of the Border,” which was also spray painted on the fence. I wondered how high the numbers went on the panels climbed along the undulating terrain in opposite directions along the border.

My wonderment was more focused on the monument itself, four square columns of gray painted wood, chipped in places, slowly succumbing to the elements. The shortest column announced the  elevation of 2,915 feet above sea level. The next tallest column declared the trail’s distance from Mexico to Canada of 2627 miles. The third column officially named this spot as the southern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail, on a route established by an Act of Congress on October 2, 1986.  The fourth column, only slightly taller than me, had the first of thousands of aluminum trail markers that would, by no less than a miracle, guide me to the Canadian version of this same monument, although on a slightly miniaturized scale, at the US-Canada border at Manning Provincial Park in British Columbia.

Had Obie not been there, I might not have found the spiral-bound notebook that was in a tin box wrapped with a rubber band.  I may not have signed my name at Mile 0.0, at the first of hundreds of trail registers I would pass during my border-to-border trek.  I might never have know that hundreds of thru hikers had left from this very spot in 2010 with the same goal of making it to Canada before the arrival of winter, and that two other hikers, T.C. and Worth, had already departed on the same day before me. Somehow, I would never meet these hikers, even though they had left only minutes or hours before me.

Obie was very thorough in his directorial photo shoot debut, making sure to capture the radiance of the moment at every conceivable angle: next to the monument, in front of it, behind it, on top of it. The last shot included jumping from one of the columns that made up the monument, arms outstretched spread eagle-style. This turned out to be an outrageously silly idea, as it almost resulted in an ankle sprain, and, on a micro scale, it did. Somewhere in the depths of my once-broken ankle, the ligaments creaked and the tendons complained. We were both astonished at the folly of the moment, considering it could have easily resulted in a rush to the emergency room and an early flight back to New Jersey.

We turned a catastrophic moment into a bit of childish humor. Obi had crutches in the trunk and began walking with them. I had a flashback of the summer of 2005, which I had spent on crutches. During that time, not only had I gone on mile-long hikes on crutches during a trip to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, I had also gone canoeing on the Ausable River as well.  I was happy to be on my own two feet, and in no need of the crutches. I like to think that I could have walked the entire trail on crutches, had the need arose. At the moment, there was no stopping me. The butterflies had churned the contents of my stomach, and flown away. If there was one thing I knew I could do, it was walk, even thousands of miles. With that simple reassurance, I took the first steps.

In front of me, I saw the contrast of brightly colored boulders against the evergreen of the scrubby thorny hills. Power lines stretched across my immediate line of sight, with a few grayish clouds to the west. Otherwise, it was sunny, and a perfect day for a hike. I followed the slippery, rutted, bumpy hardened clay of the road, trying hard not to twist an ankle, get lost, or repeat any mistakes that would condemn my dream walk. In comparison to the first day of my trek of 942 miles with my older brother, Andrew, the current Day #1 was a cakewalk.

Fourteen years earlier, Andrew and I were similarly deposited at the foot of the monument to begin a hike of half of the Pacific Crest Trail. It was June, June 8 to be exact. It was obscenely hot. Southern California was in the midst of a drought. The place was crawling with rattlesnakes. Illegal border crossing activity into the US through Campo was especially high.  And we had brought with us ice axes when temperatures were well above 100F. Our backpacks easily exceeded 60 pounds. My heavy leather boots weighed a staggering three pounds each. We were completely clueless. Andrew and I had left the monument at around 6:30PM, taken a wrong turn, lost the trail, and gotten lost. When we pitched the tent on that first evening, we had no idea where we were. An endless string of side trails had morphed into a labyrinth. It wasn’t until the next morning that we were able to figure out where we had gone wrong, and where we were. Of course, there was no rational explanation for getting lost so easily in the first place.

During the first mile, I was stalked by Obie, driving the Mercedes SUV. He found the spots where the dirt road crossed the trail and surprised me from behind the bushes and the shrubs with the video camera, and begin impromptu interviews. I pretended to be focused on the trail, but the roof of the SUV crept along the road just above the roadside shrubs at snail’s pace, my pace. Soon, even this ended. I was out there, solo, for real.

The first sign stated that “Lake Morena- 19.5 miles.” Having left at around 10:30 in the morning, I didn’t think I’d make Lake Morena on the first day. The way was sandy, but clear of obstacles, making for effortless walking. A green highway sign, probably stolen from somewhere else, marked the completion of the first mile. The message on the sign, written in black permanent marker, was more telling: ‘Only 2649 to go.” Bone-dry desert grasses and Yucca stalks, some ushering forth white flowers, grew along the rain-deprived surroundings.

After crossing Highway 94, the road that Obie and I had driven in on, another 6/10 of a mile led to a yellow circular sign with an “X”, warning hikers and those riding horseback of a railroad crossing. It was pockmarked with bullet holes. Next to it was a huge PCT marker, warning train conductors of the PCT crossing of the San Diego & Arizona Eastern Railroad tracks. With a stiff wind blowing westbound, I trekked along on an elevated portion of trail that allowed me to see the over the border fence into Mexico every time I stopped to turn around.

Four miles into my hike, I saw my first little creek. I expected it to be dry. Instead it was flowing nicely with water which was most likely cattle polluted. Why had I decided to carry two and a half gallons of water?  There was a creek which was flowing even more generously soon after, which made a good first lunch stop at which to enjoy a packet of pepperoni and crunchy croutons to excess. A little green hummingbird kept me company, attracted by radiant white trekking shirt, which was not yet fouled by trail dirt, grime, and sweat. After lunch, I had my first reminder that I was in rattlesnake country. Although I didn’t come eye-to-eye with the rattler, it made its presence obvious.  Its fierce rattle reminded me that, under no uncertain terms was I to come any closer.  I soon forgot about the rattler, splitting my attention between the surrounding landscapes and the trailside explosions of color; the bright yellows of poppies, and tangles of the orange hair-like filaments that appeared to be parasitizing other desert flora.

Five miles later, I crossed the first cattle gate, which had a jacket windbreaker resting on top of it, and an empty backpack, jeans, a button-down shirt and bright golden can of tuna below it.  I had already had lunch, so I was not tempted to delve into the can of tuna. The clothes had most likely belonged to a person who had snuck across the border, not realizing that scorching daytime temperatures turned frigid at night in the desert.

The first 30 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail are a major transit corridor for people illegally crossing into the United States at Campo. The PCT provides a direct route north, with lots of hiding places and escape routes, making it easier to evade and avoid US Border Patrol agents.

I didn’t bump into any border crossers on the trail, but I did run into a pair of US Border Patrol agents. They were as surprised to see me as I was to see them, especially after I told them that I was on my way to Canada.

“It’s gonna be really cold tonight. You packing a piece?”

“No.”

“Why not? It will protect you.”

“Well a gun won’t keep me warm,” I said, as I explained that I could not afford to carry a handgun and ammo. I had cut the handle off my toothbrush to save on weight, to reduce the weight of my pack.

I was willing to take a chance, knowing that it was entirely possible that I could find myself at knifepoint or gunpoint during the first couple of days. Hikers have been robbed, beaten, and left for dead in the past at the hands of drug or people smugglers utilizing the PCT corridor. Andrew and I had had an encounter with a group of border crossers in 1996 on the first full day of our trek. At about the same point that I met the Border Patrol agents this year, on the flanks of Hauser Mountain, Andrew and I noticed a group of people about a half a mile behind us, moving at a no-nonsense pace.  It didn’t matter that we were overloaded with 60 or 70 pounds of gear and that they had nothing but gallons of water in hand, and nothing else to survive on or keep them warm at night. It didn’t matter that they had probably been walking for days and were probably half starving to death and that we were well supplied for days having set out the day before. We perceived ourselves as walking targets.

As I crossed an east-descending jeep road this year, I recalled the moment that they finally caught up to us.  Andrew and I intentionally went the wrong way at the junction of the PCT and South Boundary Road 17S08 to allow them to pass ahead of us, hopefully without seeing us. We hid above the road on a sandy bank. Instead, they followed their route and came face-to-face with us. This group of torn and tattered Mexicans was more scared of us than we were of them, plain terrified. There was no violence, or threat of violence, as they walked past us.  They were more like zombies, rendered lifeless by the stress of their journey and concrete reality of their comparatively more difficult lives. The drama of the moment left an emotional mark in my mind.  Each thought the other was the aggressor, but neither was. I walked over to the spot where we had hidden, just to relive the moment. I imagined myself and Andrew, cowering behind the bushes and being found, a complete failure in the hide-and-seek sense.

It took some arm twisting to convince one of the US Border Patrol agents to pose in a picture with me.  Before doing so, he removed his name tag, which was velcroed to his breast pocket. In the photo, he hid below the brim of his hat as I threw out a big toothy grin. I was sure they would rather the PCT not be there since it complicated their job of securing the border. What for me was a hike was for them miles of trail that they had to actively patrol, along which they might have to make arrests, get shot at, or have to shoot someone.

The shadows were already lengthening in the late afternoon sun as I crossed into Hauser Wilderness. I had climbed the flanks of Hauser Mountain and was now had to descend to Hauser Creek on a vintage section of PCT. A sign, written exclusively in Spanish, cautioned “Cuidado. No exponga su vida a los elementos. No vale la pena.” In other words, “Caution. Don’t expose yourself to the elements. It’s not worth it.” I zigzagged my way down, back and forth, down wall of the canyon into long and narrow Hauser Creek Canyon, through which flowed Hauser Creek. Across the canyon, to the west, lay Morena Butte, the most remarkable high spot in the area.

I was flooded with memories.  Andrew and I camped at Hauser Creek in 1996. That day was rife with experiences; brain-boiling temperatures, the run-in with the border crossers, rattlesnakes, and the toil of overloaded backpacks.  That day had been capped off with Andrew passing out cold as I was preparing a dinner of lentil stew. I was the designated fainter in the family but this time, for the first time in his life, he fainted. We were about five miles from the nearest help.  I had to play medic. This was wilderness, specifically designated to remain wild and immune to human intrusion. All I could think of doing was slapping him on the cheeks and hoping he’d recover consciousness.  He did, but before there was time to celebrate, he again lost consciousness. I slapped him on the cheeks several times.  The physical battery seemed to revive him. This was an obvious case of heat exhaustion. Water was in short supply, as Hauser Creek was nothing but a series of manure cesspools.  To complicate matters, the lining inside of our collapsible water bottles had leached into the water inside, making it taste like superheated battery acid. The lentil stew had to get tossed. He skipped dinner entirely.

A fire had come through the canyon in the ensuing fourteen years. I remembered an area more handsomely populated with trees. Although the water in Hauser Creek was not in short supply, it was reputedly severely cattle polluted.  I didn’t need the water of the creek anyway. I still had six liters of the nine I had carried from the border.

I decided to find a spot above the creek, further up the trail, to reduce the possibility to someone crashing my first night of sleep. I found a little flat spot amid some boulders a half a mile up, right on the trail. The spot was nothing to write home about, but it was somewhat out of the wind, which had picked up without warning. I was too intoxicated by the rays of the sun, punching through the clouds, to consider that the dark, ominous gray clouds might result in some sort of rain. I had dreamed of spending the first night under the stars, without any tent or tarp. And just like that, in less than 24 hours, normal living became altogether foreign to me.

I woke up at 3AM with the awful realization that it was drizzling. The open area I had chosen was a magnet for the winds which were now swirling all around me. Or was it the pair of jet black helicopters drowning the Hauser Creek Valley just below with paranormal beams of floodlight and bloodcurdling chopper wash?  I sat there in disbelief, trying to make sense of what was going on.  Drizzle began to hit me from every direction. Was this really happening? Captain Hindsight would have said that there should have been a Plan B, just in case it began to rain. Rain? In the desert? Army helicopters shattering the night? Really? Where’s my damn bed?

I began to mentally circulate through my options. The darkness of the night mirrored my brain processing power at that moment. The spot was simply too small for me to pitch my rain fly. I tossed my sleeping bag into its waterproof bag, and then into my backpack with all the other loot.  The spot was just bad news with the chaotic wind blowing every which way. I didn’t know where to go, but with all of those boulders around, I figured I could one to hide behind.

I began to follow the trail, walking uphill. The clouds were low-lying and the visibility was generally poor. My goal was to get in a more sheltered spot between boulders, which took about 15 minutes to find. On a greatly slanted hillside, I took out my emergency blanket, and crammed it and myself beneath the sprawling branches of a sage bush. I did my best to wrap myself into a human burrito. By this time, I was shivering.  I tried to let my body heat reflect off the silvery side of the emergency blanket back onto me. This worked only so well, as it was cold outside, and I was wet.  I dozed off a couple of times, but by 4AM, I was aching for the sun to come up. I dozed off several more times. By 5AM I gave up on the sun and got up on my feet. Walking, I realized, would be the easiest way to warm up without pitching my tent and taking out my sleeping bag.

THANKS FOR READING AND STAY TUNED FOR THE BOOK!

ind!e a.k.a. jerseyfresh

Greetings to all of you, the faithful readers of my blog, friends, and family!

I have been slowly counting down the days that would mark the one year anniversary of my departure from the Mexican border at Campo.  Today is that day!  As I look back on that day, I recall the mixed sense of optimism, energy, and anxiety I had during the drive with Obie from San Diego.  I had no idea of how my journey would go.  I certainly didn’t expect to partially injure my ankle as I jumped from the PCT monument at the border.  Those of you who followed my blog definitely capitalized on joining me on the greatest adventure of my life; an alien march of 157 days that traversed the most amazing scenery on the planet.

It was only a few days before began my walk that I carved out a little piece of property on the internet at www.jerseyfresh.net.  I didn’t know at the time if I would have the energy, resolve, and electronic capability of typing up my adventures from the trail, all on my iPhone.  I didn’t know that it would consume a couple hours a day, every day, rain or shine, shivering or melting, and tired or just plain exhausted.  Your encouragement not only helped me to continue in the actual walk, but also in persevering in writing the best stories I could.

The blog surpassed even my own expectations.  As of this moment, my blog has been visited 18, 721 times!  The blog visits continue, currently averaging about 30 visits per day!  You helped to make it a success!

I am excited to let you know that I AM in the process of turning my blog into a published piece of work.  The process is very, very, very slow.  My book will be a lot more detailed than the blog, and it will be crushingly long, mimicking the crushingly long walk.  The process is involved, but I am intent on doing the best quality work I can.  I have written 104 pages thus far, and since I am only on Day 34, the average length of a ‘book day’ is 2.94 pages.  It may take a while, but hang in there!  I am planning on writing more furiously this summer.  I hope to keep pace with writing speed on par with my walking speed in 2010.  I hope it’s a story worth sharing and not the ultimate display of narcissism.

I am attaching a ‘teaser’ of the forthcoming book in a separate blog post “Teaser: Day One, 365 days later.”  If you like the ‘teaser,’ you’ll love the book.  Somehow, Day 1 did not make it to my blog- so, actually, you’re reading it for the first time.  It’s long, but I hope you enjoy it!  Please let me know what you think!

Be well and please, stay in touch!

ind!e  a.k.a jerseyfresh

Reflections of a Late Seasoner
October 16, 2010 from Continental Flight 1880, Seat A26, Seattle, WA to Newark, NJ

The year 2010 had ‘failed thru-hike’ tattooed on the minds of many hikers that set out at Campo this spring. This was especially true for late-season starters.

I remember reading the Southern California Water Report, which warned of ice chutes, avalanche danger, running water that could not be accessed below deep snow, and of navigational difficulties, in the San Jacintos. If it was this bad in Southern California, what would the Sierras be like? I was so spooked that I almost canned my trip before I even took the first step, before I even left San Diego.

One statistic pointed out that California had snowfalls 160% above normal, the second heaviest snowpack in its history. Late-season snow fell in the San Jacintos and in the Sierras. Mammoth Ski Resort remained open through July 4. And I walked in a lot of Sierran snow, which Uncle Tom called ‘The Great Snow Walk.’ Snow drifts lingering late into July were characteristic of not only California, but of Oregon and Washington.

In a delicate twist of irony, 2010 may have been the best year to complete a thru-hike. We had water when least expected in SoCal. The Sierran snows were passable. Northern California and points north had only a few, lingering sketchy snowfields. Oregon was cold, wet, and rainy, but what else is new. Washington, though, was the x-factor. October was an amazing month. Streaks of Indian summer lasting 3 days, 5 days, even 7 days, were common. Berries were plentiful from Seiad Valley right to the Canadian border. We had at our disposal every last ripe huckleberry. And while the bushes offered their fruity harvest, we were treated to unrivaled fall foliage, from the deepest reds to the cheerfullest yellows. Only by the grace of God was the weather so good. It could have been an entirely different September or October. The season-ending snows could have fallen mid-September. But they didn’t.

There were the naysayers and the Debbie Downers. We late seasoners were met with remarks like this for 5 months:

“You’re too late.”
“What are you doing here?” (as in, ‘You’re crazy if you think you stand a snowball’s chance in hell)
“Aren’t you a little late?”
“You”ll get snowed out.”
“Idiots.”
“The snows will fall in Washington way before you get there.”
“Hackers.”
“You should flip-flop.”
“You just wait.”

Hearing these comments had an inevitable impact on the late seasoners of 2010. I know of one young hippie couple that quit the trail in Idyllwild. Others quit later. Still others flip-flopped, meaning they did the Washington section earlier, to avoid early autumn snows, or the Sierras later, to allow for spring snows to melt and be more easily traversed. Some hiking partnerships crumbled and splintered. Most thru-hikers that I came to know, know of, or hike with, just kept on walking, 25 miles a day, every day. These were the ones with true grit, whom I came to respect the most. There was a brotherhood there, those who were going to keep going, no matter what.

One PCT trail legend told me that I was late in the game for a successful thru-hike. Chances were I would not make it. But this same person, Billygoat, gave me a piece of advice then that helped me complete the trail. He said, “You have to be an A-type to finish the trail.” I had never thought of myself as a goal-oriented, super-determined type, but with the late-season start of May 10, a shift in strategy and personality would be necessary. Or else I might be snowed out at the border, perhaps days short of completing the trail. I took the advice to heart. I also allowed myself to become a hiker that could, would, and did hike 25-30 miles a day, every day, rain-wind-sleet-or snow. The advice worked for me. That’s the nature of advice: you can take it or leave it. What you do with it is your beeswax.

My point is this: everyone who had it in them to break through to the Canadian side, barring illness, injury, or other obligations, made it through. Everyone did it by hiking their own hike, and deliberately squeezing every ounce of town stop, enjoyment, and woods time they could out of their hikes. I can’t begin to express how awesome this is. Many, many congratulations!

Here’s to you, those who I saw or specifically heard finished their thru-hikes: Flyboxer, Hiker X, Answer Man, Blackgum, Stumbling Norwegian, Spillz, Speshul 41, Medic, Flyboy, Grinder, Barrel Roll, Steiner, Swiss Miss, Gangles, T-Bone, Moosie, Bigfoot, Hojo, Shake’n'Bake, Wide Angle, Fully Loaded, Dinosaur, Swayze, Chopsticks, D’Artagnan, Hummingbird, Flashback. And to Stacks, Ursa Major, and Scott “Chipper” Clayton, and Fozzie, of whom I’m not sure what came of their hikes.

I love you guys!

Day 157 (Wednesday, October 13): a spot south of Woody Pass, 2642.7 to Monument 78, Northern Terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail, 2655, into Canada, Manning Provincial Park, to 2663, British Columbia Highway 3 @ Manning Park Resort

This is Monument Day! The end of a 5-month, 3- day journey of a lifetime! I hope you enjoy this story! To all my faithful readers, family, friends, and silent supporters, my thanks for 5 months of encouragement, interest, and sticking with me!!!!!

For the third night in a row, sleep was a second thought. It was too cold, in the first place, and in the second place, I was full of end-of-trail butterflies. I was up at 3:15. I typed a story into this iPhone and then dozed a bit. I woke up again at 5:30. Shake’n'Bake was already packing up, followed up by Wide Angle and Flyboy. I decided to take down my tent and enjoy a final hour of cowboy camping. In front of me was a wall of crumbly black rock with a single hanging snowfield. Somewhere in there was an abandoned section of probable deathly trail. There were still a few stars out. I was able to answer a question that Shake’n'Bake had posed the night before at the campfire: “What will you miss most from being out here?” For me, it would be cowboy camping. Camping and cooking dinner, hanging out with friends under the stars. This was the element that will send me out for overnight or weekend warrior trips when the weather is good. Cowboy camping. Who needs tents, really.

I enjoyed that last hour immensely. I made coffee over my little stove, finished my cinammon roll from the Stehekin Bakery, and took bites out of a stick of butter as I was eating chocolate donuts. This kind of thing will not fly on Weight Watchers- I’m lucky if I’m allowed to put a tablespoon of olive oil into a pot of cabbage soup.

The climb up to Woody Pass was short. We had done half or more of it yesterday. The weather window stayed open, as the weather people had promised. We’d have a sunny exit of the United States and a sunny entry into Canada.

At Woody Pass, the views opened up to North Cascades National Park to the West. Range upon range I could see, some dusted with snow, others packed tight with evergreens. Then began a traverse of the Lakeview Ridge. Although this was considered a 500-foot climb, I couldn’t tell. There was too much to process to worry about muscle aches. Gravity could kiss my fashizzle on Day 157. At Mile 2645, I passed over an unnamed pass at 7,200 feet. This was the beginning of the descent to Monument 78 at the US-Canada border. My dad had been asking me about getting above 7,000 feet for about a month. Had it been snowing, being at this elevation, completing the trail might have been in jeopardy. The trail immediately beyond was thin and rocky, and very exposed. A slip in snow on either side of the ridge was certain death over a cliff into Hopkins Lake or down a scree-filled ravine. But there would be no dying today, only intense enjoyment and celebration.

At Castle Pass, the trail turned North-Northwest. This was the homestretch, 4.1 miles of it, although I didn’t know this mileage at the time. At the turnoff for Ross Lake, a wood sign indicated the US border coming up. The next miles were spent looking far downtrail and around the bends for Monument 78. This went on for over an hour and a half. Then I saw a line down a mountainside, about 30 feet wide, clearcut of trees. I knew this was the border line. The trail abruptly began to descend on a few final switchbacks. And there it was, Monument 78 at the US-Canada border. Next to it, the PCT Monument marking the northern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail.

I erupted into the most spirited display of joy in my life! With my walking sticks in my hands, arms outstretched, I yelled at the top of my lungs. I went over and hugged the PCT monument. Wide Angle, Flyboy, and Shake’n'Bake were there to congratulate me, and I, them. In an instant, an alien march lasting 157 days that traversed deserts, snowbound passes, forested canyons, and volcanic ranges was over. The feeling was amazing. Their cameras will have it captured best, that moment when I crossed the border. For the next 10 minutes, they snapped pictures. What a moment, what a day!

Fifteen minutes later, Shake’n'Bake and Flyboy took off and Flyboxer rolled in. We had stayed quiet so that he might enjoy the surprise on his own, and it worked- he had his moment of surprise and celebration. We let him react and then cheered him on, exchanging hugs. The feeling of disbelief at reaching this endpoint was mutual.

We took more glory shots at the monuments. We made Wide
Angle remove his shirt and climb the monument, baring his chest showing “I DID make it Billygoat! October 13, 2010.”

Leaving the border point, Flyboxer and I entered Canada for the final 8 miles, out of the woods, to Highway 3 and Manning Park Resort. Now walking on Canadian soil, Windy Joe Pass was the final climb, the final obstacle. By the time we began our descent to Highway 3, my legs were already thinking ‘vacation.’ A hot tub was sounding really good, and it was just around the corner.

Congratulations to all who stayed true-to-the-thru, those who flip-flopped, and all of us who chipped away at the 2,655-mile PCT, day by day, mile-by-mile. It wasn’t easy. Some were injured, others surrendered. Some tried for a PCT thru-hike for a second, third, fourth, or fifth time, having failed previously. My heart goes out to them. Completing a thru-hike of the PCT is an achievement unlike any other. According to the Pacific Crest Trail Association, more men and women have summited Mt. Everest than have thru-hiked the PCT. This is a tribe I’m proud to belong to!

Indie
10 May 2010, Campo, California, US-Mexico border
13 October 2010, Manning Provincial Park, British Columbia, Canada, US-Canada border

Enjoy the photos!

Day 156 (Tuesday, October 12): trailside camp north of Glacier Pass, 2618.6, to a spot south of Woody Pass, 2642.7

Hello to everyone on my second-to-last day! Only 30 miles to go!!!

Nature called at the ungodly hour of 4:15AM. As I opened my eyes, lying on my side, I could see fluffy, white snow that had accumulated onto my emergency blanket. It was a most unusual sight. The drops of condensation that had collected that I feared would drip all over me- they were frozen solid. They were powerless to drip on me. After I finally decided to get out of my sleeping bag and leave my tent, I did a 180 in my sleeping bag, like a train turning around in a depot, and unzipped the tent. Snow flew in. It was only a dusting, but everything was uniformly white, like a delicate Christmas snow. Snow was piled up on my tent and the others’ tents. It was a sight, and a sentiment, to behold.

The snow was nothing more than a pleasant nuisance. In terms of sunrise, the snow reflected the morning alpenglow amazingly. An entire boulder field looked pink. The light was short-lived, ephemeral. The sun tucked itself right back behind the clouds, clouds that would enshroud it all morning. We would have none of the clear skies that had been predicted. Nor would we have any of the snow or rain they hadn’t predicted. Everything was peachy.

I was the last to leave. Like responsible hikers, we had left no trace of where we had spent the night. This was not exactly true in the sense of the outline of five tents that were unmistakable with the surrounding snow.

It seemed like there were tens of mountain passes to cross. Being the last one out, I had empty traverses and ridges in front of me, in scenery dominated by the yellow needles of the tamarack. Looking back I could see ranges upon ranges of mountains I had come over. There was a slight blur- tears had welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t help but get emotional when confronted with the reality of how epic the summer, the trek, had been. A half hour later, the same thing happened. I wondered if this would continue all day, with the regularity of a weather report given twice an hour on the 15s and the 45s.

I had said, stated, and proclaimed that there was no room for nostalgia in the uncertain weather of Washington in October. No room for it. Yet, if there was ever a time for nostalgia, this was it. I had met incredible people, forged new friendships, traversed an entire country, and experienced a lifetime’s-worth of fear, joy, and endurance. Every step was enjoyed in a true sense, even if it was loathed at the time. Or was my perception so boldly colored by the fact that it wasn’t raining or snowing.

It seemed like the day was a big zigzag. North, west, east, and south, every view was afforded by the PCT. Hart’s Pass, a Forest Service road providing the final escape to civilization, had vehicle traffic on it. Maybe this section was not as remote as it was drummed up to be.

Grinder came up the trail from the opposite direction. He was beaming in smiles, like someone who had finished his hike. “You guys have gotta get there.” Indeed, he had finished. He turned around at Monument 78 at the US-Canada border and was expecting a ride at Hart’s Pass. A hug of congratulations and farewell was only fitting.

There was plenty of time for reflection and observing big landscapes. Mostly everyone walked solo. This was a chance to begin to imagine life beyond the trail, which was there before the hike, and most certainly, would be there afterwards. There was a lot of guessing today as well. Which ridge would lead us to the long-awaited border? Was it that one, or the next? The PCT kept me guessing, right until the latter part of the day.

Wide Angle, Flyboxer, Shake’n'Bake, and I reunited at Holcomb Pass, elevation 5050. We had a 1,500 foot climb to Rock Pass. Switchbacks zigzagged back and forth up the hillside, past creeks and streams. A crumbly mountain ridge towered to the west. At the top of the pass was an alternate route we were clearly warned to avoid, which might provide an express ticket to the funeral parlor. Instead, switchbacks with their own big drops, led us down and then back up through a field of sketchy scree. I can’t imagine how terrifying the alternate would have been.

Shake’n'Bake found camp first. Being the good dude he is, he got the campfire going before doing anything else. I brought over a dead tree, which was probably too much wood to handle without an axe. PCT thru-hikers don’t typically carry them. We crowded our tents into the space that was there and got to doing what we did best- sitting around the campfire, talking, and eating. The last night on the PCT, in an alpine bowl under star-studded skies. Perfectly spent.

Enjoy the photos!

ind!e

Day 155 (Monday, October 11): Highway 20′s Rainy Pass at 2593.8 to trailside camp north of Glacier Pass, 2618.6

Joel, who had brought us to his home, off of Rainy Pass one day earlier, hollered down at around 6AM. I was already up. He soon prepared a perfectly brewed cup of coffee and butter and orange marmalade on wheat bread toast. It really hit the spot. Ironically, with only 2 1/2 days left to walk, my pack was stuffed to the gills, to the extent that the water bottles barely fit.

We were off by 7:15 for the hour-long ride into the North Cascades. The weather was idyllic in the Methow Valley, but approaching the mountains, clouds were abundant and intimidatingly gray. It didn’t matter- the 3-day weather window was open. There was little chance of being skunked out of a thru-hike no matter what happened.

We had some great views with the sun backlighting all the peaks on the east-west Hwy 20, the North Cascades Highway. Back at the Rainy Pass PCT North Trailhead, I said goodbye to Joel. I was convinced that his and Pam’s compassion the day before had possibly prevented the onset of a life-threatening case of hypothermia. With that thought, I followed an “oh, boy, here goes nothing” with a footstep, and another, then another.

I have to mention a Facebook message from my grad school classmate and friend, Mark. I read it the night before at Joel’s, and while I found it highly amusing, it also solidified my resolve to finish. Finish strong, and finish fast. It went something like this: “I have to stress the notion that you need to channel every bit of postal carrier that you may possess: ‘Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” This is the United States Postal Service creed. I figured, the Post Office got all my boxes to me, with the help of my mom, dad, and family. If I was going to finish this trail, I would have to go completely postal.

Leonard was the only one in the parking lot at Rainy Pass. He was going up on the PCT for a few days just to see the larches, aka tamarack, which are semi-coniferous trees whose pine needles turned bright yellow in the fall. “Aren’t you a little late?” We knew we were. We had heard it billions of times. Usually the larches turn color in the absence of hikers, once the early snows have fallen and the hiking trails are out of commission. We were encouraged to hear that our friends were ahead: Shake’n'Bake, Flyboy, Wide Angle, and Hojo. This was somewhat comforting, and comfort was needed, as snow soon appeared on the trail. But there was plenty of blue sky overhead too.

Moving up the trail, 69 miles to go, we made sure not to do anything stupid. We were careful to avoid water running down the trail. We watched for frozen rocks on the trail- there was a lot of ice around. We even avoided a slanted, slippery-looking log on a creek crossing, and rock-hopped instead. We climbed the first 2,000 feet, to Cutthroat Pass, with ease. There, on an east-side traverse, the snow was less on the trail, just a dusting. Blue skies dominated.

We soon began to descend some North-facing switchbacks. The wind picked up. The cold was unmistakable. I felt it on my chest. Even on this sunny day, the perils loomed. My elbows and triceps began to feel sluggish. My hands lost their dexterity. It was time for gloves and an extra layer, and a chill pill. If this was the day, what would the night be like? Easy answer- FRIGID!

Fortunately, the trail began to go west, so the sun hit the south-facing mountainside. The Golden Horn, a large spire, dominated the northward views. To the west, it was just utter starkness. I warmed up just in time for lunch at Methow Pass. The anxiety eased once we dropped into a long wooded valley on descent. The woods were warm and peaceful. From Methow Creek to Rush Creek, I could see the valley, but, arguably, less scenic views. Flyboxer had a great idea: End the trail at Stehekin. With the end there, thru-hikers could order their PCT cakes at the bakery. A booze cruise celebration on the 4-hour boat ride across Lake Chelan. It would be a gold mine. And Adele at the Stehekin Post Office wouldn’t need to worry herself sick about hikers who had/ hadn’t picked up their boxes with the PO closing after Columbus Day.

On the way up from Rush Creek, I ran into Wide Angle and Hojo. Hojo had to run back down to Rush Creek to get his solar charger. We continued on the 2,000 foot climb up a very steep mountain wall to Glacier Pass and then another pass. The alien march proceeded in a line: Flyboy, Flyboxer, Wide Angle, and me. In the distance, snow was falling in North Cascades NP. Flurries finally began to fall as we were ending that climb and crossed to the other side of the pass. Headlamps almost became necessary, but this option was avoided. We arrived to camp just in time, signaled by a bright orange light, a raging campfire. Shake’n'Bake had started it earlier.

A cold night was mounting. The five of us huddled right up to the fire and cooked our meals. Snow flurries were vaporized directly overhead as the fragile water crystals were overpowered by the heat of the campfire. These were very good times that would soon be a fleeting memory. When it was time for sleep, I remember shivering for over a minute. It was arctic. Ice crystals had already infiltrated my water bottle. It was time to finish the trail. I just needed two more days.

Day 154 (Sunday, October 10): 2591.5, Trail 419, to Highway 20′s Rainy Pass at 2593.8

Rain, rain, and more rain. It fell all night and all morning. I fought a losing battle with keeping things dry. Water was coming in from all sides and there was no stopping it. I tried. I wiped down the tent walls and my emergency blanket groundcloth. The seams on the outside were covered with trash bags. And still, it was a complete fail. There was little to do and no room to maneuver. I just stared at the cieling of my tent. For hours. Going to the bathroom was a one-hour project- 55 minutes to decide how badly I needed to go and 5 minutes to execute the plan. It was miserable.

Around 10AM, Flyboxer began to stir. It seemed as though the rain had stopped temporarily, so we made plans to pack up and try to hitch to Mazama. The true scope of the soaked state of affairs my stuff was in was definitely cause for alarm. The trail was wet, soaked.

On Hwy 20, at the PCT South Trailhead, we took turns trying to hitch. The lull in the rain made it bearable, but not for long. It was cold standing out on the highway, and extremely frustrating. The logic of what we were doing was convoluted. I was after a warm night indoors + a weather forecast and Flyboxer just needed the weather forecast. We both needed something that Rainy Pass could not provide. This first hitchiking attempt was followed by stalking passersby in the parking lot for weather info. One report was good weather for three days and another cited snow for Sunday night. We decided to hitch again, frustrated by the conflicting weather info. This second attempt was also fruitless. “If you can’t get a ride, you can’t.” There was nothing we could do short of jumping in the way of cars to force a ride. Together, we decided to continue hiking northward.

I wasn’t ready for it. Nothing was packed properly in my sagging sausage rucksack that had 5 links of gear and food in it. Flyboxer probably thought his hiking partner had aged 50 years overnight.

“I have a bad feeling in my gut about this. I want to go to Mazama.”
“Fine. We’ll try and hitch again at the Rainy Pass crossing of Highway 20.”

We tried hitching in this better spot at the top of a hill. It wasn’t going well. I was so upset, concerned with spending a night that was sure to be super cold outdoors with compromised gear. Cars sped by. The Audi’s sped by the fastest. I began dismissing them with a disgusted wave of the hand. Flyboxer said,” You’re in no mental condition to hitch. Move over.” He wasn’t having much luck either. After a short while, Pig Pen, a 2010 thru-hiker candidate, pulled up. He was setting some trail magic for hiking buddies of his still on the trail. He offerred to drive us to Nehalem, 37 miles away. We weren’t sure. This would put us far away from an early start the next day. Anxiety mounted.

While Pig Pen was getting his trail magic together, I took my turn thumbing. Flyboxer was a tirade, pacing up and down the shoulder of the highway, yelling a choice word or two. I tried not to take it personally. I just knew I was cold, wet, and uncertain of what weather lay ahead. It was probably the same for him, but him being more of a moutain man, could probably do without a town stop.

“We should really think this through. At least we’ll be out of the elements and we can get an updated weather report.”
” (obscenities). You’d think that after 2,500 miles we’d be better at this. Neither of us is capable of making a decision and neither of us has any confidence.”

Our concern was potentially hitting the trail late Monday when there was a weather window that we could take advantage of. On the flip side, we could hit a wall of snow continuing today.

Things were at their worst in weeks. A life or death decision was hanging in the balance. To go ahead? To go to town? We had wet gear. I was freezing, wearing wet shoes, and malnourished. Flyboxer was extremely concerned that we did not have an accurate forecast. I was too, but more concerned with drying out and getting better rest than the day before.

Before things could get worse, a white Prius pulled up and made a U-ey. Out popped Joel, and opened his trunk. “Come on in. I hope you’ve got some stories.” I leapt at his offer to drive us to the Country Inn in Mazama. Inside the car was a friend of Joel’s, named Pam. Together, they were lifesavers with beating hearts. Earlier, we had agreed that ‘if it wasn’t meant to be, it wasn’t meant to be.’ The complete opposite had happened. It was meant to be. I couldn’t be happier.

From Rainy Pass it was all downhill. We told stories from the trail. Joel and Pam told us about trips overseas. Joel, a self-proclaimed foodie, sparked memories of throwing recipes together in my off-trail life. The amazing scenery of the North Cascades flew by on the long descent into Mazama. Joel and Pam stopped off at the Country Inn. We were there, parked and unloaded. I managed to convince Pam to pose for a picture, which was unusual. Pam, always barefoot, agreed. Then Joel offerred us a ride back to the trail tomorrow. I was astounded. “Heck, you’re welcome to spend the night at the house.” This was an incredible offer, and had things not been as desperate as they had, I might have thought twice. Another storm could be lurking, a snowy, hike-ending storm. But I accepted without hesitation.

We reloaded the packs into the trunk and continued on to Carlton, where Joel had his house. The drive took us through the grassy hills that form the Methow River Valley. Aspens were all over the valley, especially near the Methow River, all changing to bright yellow. It reminded me of the Grand Valley in Colorado, which also has a big river, the Colorado, running through it. We passed through a wild West theme town called Winthrop, where every storefront was made to look like a place that goldminers, cowboys, gunslingers, and outlaws were forced to coexist.. But, there were no horses, gold pans, or gunshots- only cars, motorcycles, and tourists with loose purse strings. The next town, Twisp, was much cooler. It had a pizza place, a brewpub, a theater, probably a coffeehouse, a supermarket, and, in general, a bit more discretion toward those that called Twisp ‘home.’ This town was not aimed at tourists. It existed for its townspeople.

Joel and Pam put the question flat out, “Joel will cook you anything you’d like. Anything. Any ideas?” “We’ll eat anything.” “How about a stir fry? Beef? Chicken?” it sounded delicious already. There was a Hank’s Supermarket in Twisp, so Joel stopped in, and then I figured I could grab some butter, donuts, and creamer to go with my coffee. I can’t say I’ve ever seen mounted deer or stuffed bears, the real taxidermist-stuffed ones, in a supermarket. There were about 30 deer there, atop the freezers in the frozen foods. It just seemed kind of strange. Still, prices were good and the people were nice, which lent a neighborhood feel to the place.

Carlton was about another 15 minutes drive along the Methow River. Staring out the window came so easily, the road bending with the river. Joel’s property was just off the road, set back by a dirt path plenty far to where only nature’s sounds could be heard. Joel showed us around his homestead- to the washer/dryer, bathroom, and the Southwestern-style house he had built with his own two hands. We were basically told to make ourselves at home.

We went about some chores, such as drying out our tarps and sleeping bags. The laundry went in. And a shower that felt really great. Joel was busy prepping all sorts of fresh veggies and spices and sauces for a beef stir fry. Pam came over later, still barefoot and full of smiles. She helped Joel prep the dinner, although she prefers the cleanup to the cooking itself. Call it fatigue, but it took some prodding for Flyboxer and I to try out Joel’s cedar sauna. Right outside the house, built out of cedar, as hot as you’d like. The sauna was incredible. To sit in the heat was a feeling like no other. Flyboxer and I just couldn’t fathom that Joel and Pam had been so trusting with us two downtrodden, but eager to finish the PCT, thru-hikers.

Right before dinner, Joel invited us to use the computer upstairs. It was hard to concentrate on the screen when such a fabulous display of pink-backlit clouds were making for a righteous sunset. Here was the NOAA/National Weather Service forecast:

Monday (Columbus Day): clearing, sunny
Tuesday: sunny
Wednesday; sunny
Thursday and Friday: 30% of rain or snow
Beyond: ?

Although the weather would likely be a notch worse and very cold, we had our weather window. We were going to make it to Canada! Another October weather window!

The news was easy to stomach, but it not easy as the stir-fry. Served with brown rice and all the key sauces, the gingery mix of peppers, onions, carrots, and a delicious cut of beef, I had to indulge for a second helping, as big as the first. Conversation came very easily. I learned all about Pam’s and Joel’s families and how their lives had intertwined. Joel shared a lot about his travels, as well as past days in the Air Force as a navigator. Pam also amazed me with stories of living in the hills, completely isolated, where she would grow her own wheat, grind it, and bake it into bread. It didn’t sound like an easy life, although from my limited suburban upringing, it seemed idyllic. As the beer in the bottle disappeared, so did the night. It was time for sleeping. Not for me, but for everyone else. I was up until midnight, blogging and reading the comments on the blog that had been so sustaining and affirming for the last five months.

Day 153 (Saturday, October 9): 2584, Six Mile Camp to 2593.8, Rainy Pass on Highway 20, the North Cascades Highway, back to 2593.3, Rainy Lake’s Outlet Creek

Welcome everyone! Thank you for your visiting time and time again!

This morning the plan was simple. Hike the remaining 9 miles to Rainy Pass on Highway 20. Or so I would have thunk.

The rains came overnight. They sure did. I had my ghetto tent prophylactic up- trash bags placed outside the tent on the main top seam to prevent water from coming in. And to soften the impact of large rain drops that would have a tendency to shatter condensation drops inside the tent all over me. Still, I woke up alarmed every 10 minutes, thinking there was water pouring all over me from above. These wake-ups may have gone on all through the night.

Packing up in what was mostly fog by morning was the usual messy procedure. Hemlock needles covered the tent. Obviously, the tent was soaked. Being somwhat used to this, I packed up as best I could and we got going.

There was little, if anything, to see. Everything was fogged in. Trees with bright yellow leaves managed to punctuate the dull foggy overtone, but nothing else really did. And that was fine. It was only nine miles.

Three miles short of Rainy Pass, Flyboxer threw a question out, “Is it possible to skip Mazama?” Mazama is the last outpost and the last out before 70 miles of PCT for the northbounders. We had planned to go there yesterday. I almost had a heart attack. Skip it? We planned on it. I banked on it. Four inches of rain were expected today and rain was certain for Sunday. I had told my brother I would call from Mazama today. The last thing I needed was to have my elderly parents worrying about me. The last thing I needed was to be crossing 7,000 foot passes in a soaker, in a Nor’wester. True, it wasn’t raining. But it could at any time. There sure as heck werent any views through the fog.

We arrived at Rainy Pass in shambles. With no plan. In a cloud of confusion and a mist of doubt. We began to walk up the highway with no certain destination since no rest area appeared within 20 minutes. Cars sped by, lights on for safety. If we were going on, I had to let someone know, maybe pass a message through someone passing through.

We did a 180 and started to walk back to the PCT trailhead at Rainy Pass. We still weren’t sure if we were going ahead or hitching into Mazama. I began to walk aimlessly through the parking area for the trailhead. Flyboxer began to thumb. I returned to where he was and took over the thumbing. Soon, two hikers from Vancouver pulled in. Then a pickup. The two hikers were on their way to a three-day loop. So, I went over to the pickup.

Paul was the driver of the pickup. I asked Paul to deliver a message. He was on board instantly. He typed my home phone into his cell. The message was that we were going north, skipping Mazama. Adam was there too. He’d hiked a section with Uncle Tom, a thru-hiker this season. I knew I was in good hands. Paul and Adam confirmed bad weather for Saturday and Sunday, better afterwards. No snow. They even offered us steaks. On the other hand, the two hikers mentioned a chance of snow Sunday night. Now we were really on the fence.

Doubt and indecision multiplied. Should we hitch into Mazama? Should we head north? We began to get cold. In the end, we decided to hunker down for the day on the trail and then hitch in and spend the night on Sunday in Mazama. It was more of an economical decision at the time, a cash saver. Spending the night indoors, as well as the next, would be the better choice. And what about that rain? Wishy-washy? Absolutey.

In silence, we backtracked a half mile to Rainy Lake’s outlet creek. I don’t know what Flyboxer was thinking. I knew we had done the safest thing by not hiking up into a full-fledged storm. It would have been like taking a bull by the horns. Not a wise course of action. Even more so, considering I didn’t have a 4-season tent and all Flyboxer had as a warm layer was a cotton/poly sweatshirt.

I took time setting up my tarp, making sure it was well-staked. This took over an hour. There was no rush. It was only noon. I got into my tent an hour later and let sleep rush over me. It was during this time that the rains began to fall. Harder and harder by the hour, seemingly by the minute. And now, almost 9PM, it’s the same story. Peltering rain. How glad I am that I am not up on some God-forsaken traverse or ridge walk. The weather people were spot on.