September 16, 2016 Mile 2030.4-2062.1 31.7 Miles The rock under my foot turns and I curse and stumble uphill. This is at least the fourth time in the last five minutes. Roadside is muttering behind me and making his own rocky ruckus. Our depth perception is erased by the dim white of our headlamps and we cannot seem to find our footing in the dark this morning. To make matters worse, I’ve left my Arc’teryx down puffy on. It seemed like a good idea in the chilly damp morning, but now it seems like the height of stupidity—I’m doing a high-intensity lower-body and core workout, and I’m wearing a down jacket? It feels like a damned sauna. Whose idiotic idea was it to climb this messy trail at five in the morning? I’m angry at the world, roasting but too stubborn to stop, hungry but too stubborn to eat. And I have a headache. I finally stop to take off my jacket and my headlamp a little while after it gets light enough to see. When I turn around to see how far back Roadside is, Mt. Jefferson steals my attention. It has a halo of clouds, bright pinks and oranges trailing over the peak and brightly lit in sunlight that hasn’t quite reached the mountain itself yet. The snowfields on the barren northern and western slopes give the mountain a regal profile. I stand and stare for a moment while Roadside huffs up the last few yards to join me. Then I take out my phone to snap a picture. My phone is an iPhone 6SE, built small like the 5 and previous models, but with the same features as the 6 which just came out last year. I got it because it’s small and lightweight (every ounce counts when you’re doing 25+ mile days), but it still has a good camera. At least that’s what I was told. The pictures never do justice to the beauty of nature. The landscapes are too small, the zoom is too weak, the colors are always dull or washed out. That may be less an indictment of the phone than of my photographic skill, but even more I think it says something about trying to capture moments in general. Photographs, writing, memories—none of these can take the place of direct experience. All the more reason for us to practice staying present in the moment and enjoy it while it lasts. We stop every few minutes for the rest of our climb to enjoy the changing view of incandescent snowfields and glowing rock. The sky is an electric blue canvas. The mountain hums and buzzes with light like a neon sign. We top out at 6891ft at 7:08am, two facts that I feel required to note and that signify nothing. I might as well measure a smell or time a flavor. Civil habits die hard. To the north, a new view opens before us. Mount Hood, and faintly in the distance, Mount Saint Helens and Mount Adams, are arrayed to remind us how large this land is. The sky is nearly cloudless and the early morning sun illuminates the eastern flank of Mount Hood like greek marble. Layers of ridges fold and sweep across the land in bold strokes. I am going to walk all of this, I think, and beyond. Those hidden valleys, the waterfalls that I can only imagine, the ridges and changing light—I get to experience it all. I’m so overawed that I don’t even notice that my bad mood has completely evaporated. The descent is equally rocky, but now that it is light out, the obstacles are easy to avoid. Side trails and game trails criss-cross the PCT like stitches. The land passes quickly now. Rocky tundra gives way to forest and meadow, turquoise lakes float by in idyllic dreams. We zip along in quiet contemplation. A short side trail leads to Olallie Lake, where there’s a small store. We stop and look for lunch. Doritos, Oreos, ice cream, beer. There’s nothing that could be considered an actual meal at the store, so I’ll have to supplement what they have with food from my own supply. We check out and talk with the friendly shop owner for a bit. I’m curious how far away civilization, that sliding scale, is from here. He tells me an hour and a half, but I don’t know if that’s the nearest small town, big city, or something in between. Roadside and I go sit in wood chairs on the porch in front of the store, looking down at a small dock with several rowboats and out across the lake at the snow-flanked Mount Jefferson. The direction of the light and a gentle breeze keep the reflection off the water, but it’s still a memorable view, an archetype of sorts that will stick with me for years. A backpacker in his late twenties with long dreadlocks comes up the steps and we greet him. He gets some food from inside and sits on the patio with us. “Where are you from?” I ask. “I’ve been hiking for the last four years.” There’s something both exciting and frightening about the idea. I love the time I spend out here, but four years away from a community seems like it would damage me. I need solitude, but I also need society. “Where do you go in the winter?” I ask. “South,” he answers. It’s the most obvious answer in the world, but it’s not quite what I was asking. “No, I mean what trails do you go to?” “It’s different every year.” He doesn’t seem to be interested in talking about it. I ask him the other question that comes to mind. “What do you do for money?” “I have an income.” He says it with a touch of contempt on his face. I decide not to ask him anything else. If he wanted to share, he’d share. Our conversation is over. He says nothing else, and neither do we. Roadside and I finish our beers and head over to the picnic tables to cook our lunches. A few more hikers come and go, one and two at a time. We have short conversations with each of them, but mostly it’s just the two of us eating our lunch quietly. The afternoon takes us back into the tunnel of trees. Aside from a few scattered lakes and a clearing for power lines, we stay in the tunnel until evening. Once, as we pass over a rise, we can see Mt. Hood’s white bulk before us. But then we’re back into the trees. We finally reach our goal at Warm Springs Creek a little after seven p.m. There are several small campsites between the trees, zoned off from one another by fallen logs. Each is just big enough for a single tent.
There is a campfire going, with three people around it. I think it’s the first campfire I’ve seen since the Sierra. After we get unpacked, I tell Roadside I’m going to see if they’ll let me join them. Roadside says he’s just going to finish his dinner and go to bed. He’s not even cooking a hot meal. We’ve done nearly 32 miles today. The campers are friendly. Two of them are from Korea and the third is an American. The Koreans are a couple in their twenties. The girl is a little difficult to understand, but they are friendly and welcoming. After dinner it’s hard to walk away from the fire and their company, back into the dark woods
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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