October 7, 2016 Mile 2540.7-2569.4 28.7 miles 5:30am comes too soon. A headache and achy muscles hit my snooze button for me before I can muster the will to argue. Maybe it’ll give Roadside a chance to catch up. Ten minutes later I have to get moving. Twenty-nine miles left until Stehekin, food, maybe a warm bed. This is a lot of big days in a row, but these rainstorms are going to turn to snowstorms soon. I’d rather be at the border before that happens. The trail follows the river east for a mile or so, then turns north again to follow Miner’s Creek. It’s still dark, and I’m disappointed I never got to see the Suiattle River. Another spot I’ll have to come visit again. The sun comes up, but before long a fog sets in again. The ground is dusted with fresh snow in places. It has stuck to the vegetation on either side of the trail, but the trail itself is clear. I stop for breakfast earlier than usual; I’m still beat from yesterday. Before I’ve finished taking out my stuff, Roadside shows up. “You caught up!” “I thought you were long gone.” “I was going to hike through the night and try to get to Stehekin, but then I got too tired. Where did you camp?” “I thought you might do that. About a mile after the bridge. I kept calling out to you along the way. I was afraid I might pass you.” “You must’ve been within a quarter mile of me. I’m surprised I didn’t hear you.” I pause, and realize that he needs to know I wasn’t trying to ditch him. “Well I’m glad you’re here. I was a little afraid you’d camp early and not be able to make it to town today.” We start off again into dramatic landscapes: tall, rock-walled basins dusted with snow and partly obscured with fog and mists. I pull ahead again, into a lush valley. The weather warms up a bit but the constant drizzle continues on and off. In the afternoon I meet a hiker named Hat Trick who offers me some pot. I decline. I don’t want to slow down and miss the shuttle into Stehekin. It only comes two times a day this late in the season: once at 7am and once at 7pm. And the road isn’t connected to any other roads, so it’s extremely unlikely that anyone else would come through. If I get there even 5 minutes late, I’ll have to wait until the next morning, and then I won’t be able to get out again until the next night. I can’t afford to add a day to my trip right now. I come to a wide creek. I don’t want to get my feet wet in this cold, so I look for a good place to cross. The best I can see from here is a narrow fallen tree just downstream. I have to climb some boulders to get on top of it, and it bows and bounces under every step, but I make it safely across. I pull off my rain gloves to check my map and see if I still have a chance to make it to the shuttle stop in time. Still too close to call. It’s stopped raining, so I shove the gloves in a pocket. A quarter mile later it starts to rain lightly again. I go to pull on my rain gloves, but one of them is missing. I’ve got to turn around. It might make me late for the shuttle, but judging by Washington’s weather so far, I’m going to need them. If my hands get soaked on a day with cold like yesterday, I’m in real trouble. I find it sitting on the ground right where I stopped. Less than a mile later I run into my friends Jim and Danielle—now Slick and River Pants—stopped by the side of the trail. I can’t believe I’ve caught up to them! Last time I saw them was back in Kennedy Meadows South, when we spent the day drinking beer in front of the general store. That was before I skipped back to hike the Mojave desert and before the ten-day stretch when my wife joined me in the Sierra and we only did 10-15 miles a day, and before I took a whole week off from the trail. I didn’t figure there was any chance I would see them again. I was in a hurry just a minute ago, but now I have to stop and talk. I ask them about their hike. It seems like maybe I’ve stumbled in at a bad time, because they both seem like their minds are somewhere else. Roadside comes up a minute later, and I introduce them. They are polite and cordial, but it seems like they’re in the middle of trying to solve a big problem and are having trouble switching their focus back to the present. I feel the press of time, so I ask them whether they are going into Stehekin—maybe we can meet up and talk more there. They aren’t. They plan to continue one more day’s hike to Rainy Pass and hitch into Mazama to resupply. I tell them I hope I run into them again between here and the border. I won’t. Roadside and I have to continue on and try to get into town tonight. I’m flying as fast as I can the last few miles to the shuttle stop. It doesn’t matter. I arrive fifteen minutes too late.
Hat Trick catches up just as I reach the dirt road. He has vitality, an audaciousness that seems to say “you’re my friend now, but it has absolutely nothing to do with you.” We go the wrong way first, to a little campground area about a hundred yards away. I’m going to set up camp and wait for Roadside there, but Hat Trick goes the other direction to check at the shuttle stop. A minute later I hear him whooping and hollering from down the hill. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I grab my gear and head down there, hopeful the shuttle is waiting for us. He’s standing in the rain with two other hikers next to a shuttered, pale green house that serves as the ranger station. There’s no shuttle. Hat Trick says his dad left him a note—he’s coming to pick him up later. I try not to let myself get excited—there are four of us, plus Roadside if he shows up soon, and the chances of us all squeezing into a car are slim. Roadside does show up, and a couple minutes later a pickup truck arrives with Hat Trick’s dad riding shotgun. The reunion of dad and son is full of enthusiastic whooping and shouting, like southern frat boys at a party. It’s fun and infectious, and we all pile into the bed of the truck feeling like we’ve just joined the party. Even the rain can’t dampen our spirits. The road to Stehekin is seven miles long and as I mentioned before, unconnected to other roads. The town is at the north end of Lake Chelan, a narrow, fifty-mile lake, and can only be accessed by foot, pack animal, plane, or ferry. The ride back to town is full of colorful language, mostly from Hat Trick—“I would suck a dog dick for a good meal right now.”—and Afro-man—“I’d lick a cat’s nipples and swallow the hair.” They keep trying to top each other with bad taste and we’re all laughing as we fly down the narrow road. The wind and rain are painfully cold, but the promise of town is just too good. We stop once, to pick up a section hiker who was hiking into town. He’s in his fifties and wants to know everything about our trip. It makes us feel like celebrities, and we’re all throwing in our two cents and nodding agreement at each other. We’re filled with a sense of celebrity, appreciated for this hard thing that we’re doing. Hat Trick and Afro Man make no attempt to tone down the shock factor, and at first the man is surprised but he quickly falls under their spell and laughs along. We arrive in town in the dark and pile out as friends. The lodge is full, the restaurant is closed. Those who had reservations depart from those of us who do not, and Roadside, Afro-Man, and I make our way up to the campground. With no cell service, I don’t have much hope of finding Brian tonight, though I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. The first campsite we find is spacious and has only one tent; no one answers when we call out, so we set up a short distance away and hope they won’t mind. During dinner, Afro-Man regales us with detailed descriptions of his bowel movements over the last several months. “Dude, we’re eating!” I laugh. He laughs too, and then amps up the detail. A nearby campsite has a pop-up canopy, bright lights, and a small party of women talking and laughing. We briefly talk about going up to see if we can join in the fun, but I’m exhausted from the constant cold and rain and all I want to do is climb into my dry longjohns and go to bed. Roadside and Afro-Man come to the same conclusion.
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
Author
Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
Categories |