October 2, 2016 Miles 9.2-26.4 of alternate, 2425.2-2432.1 of PCT 24.1 Miles “Hey Blackout, wake up!” … “Blackout, you awake?” “grmmm…” he mumbles, “yeah.” Roadside and I pack up noisily, but Blackout is silent and his tent stays dark. Just before we leave I try one more time, but he doesn’t even stir, so we start to hike. We encounter big deadfall less than 50 feet from camp. It requires some tricky climbing, so I turn and wait in case Roadside needs a hand, and I see Blackout’s headlamp back at camp. He’s awake, and quick as he is I expect he’ll catch up in no time. But I won’t see him again until almost a year later when we meet in Zion National Park for a couple of hikes. We come to a rushing creek. I can’t see it in the dark, but it sounds like a big volume of water rushing quickly downhill over a rocky bed. There’s a log across it, so I balance-beam my way across. I’m about a third of the way when my headlamp glints on the rapids below—it’s a twenty-foot drop! There’s nothing to do but keep going. I make it to the other side without incident, and so does Roadside. “Did you see the drop?” he asks. “Yeah. I’m sorta glad it was dark, I’m not sure I would have had the nerve if I had seen it in advance.” Our next obstacle is a tangle of deadfall that throws us off the trail. It takes us a minute to realize that we’re on a game trail that is rapidly disappearing. We check the map and backtrack. It’s light enough to see now, and there is a river beside us, the Snoqualmie, with a rocky bed that is much wider than the water. The banks are eroded with a ten-foot drop to the rocks below. I can’t see any place for the trail between here and the river. I check the map, and it looks like we’re supposed to cross. I look in disbelief at a huge log. It’s obviously not the intended crossing point, but I can’t see any other options. Honestly, there’s not even a good place to descend to the riverbed. The log appears to be our only hope. The problem is, there’s a large gap and a drop between the bank and the roots of the log. We’ll have to jump across the gap, land on the knot of roots, and keep our balance so we don’t fall another 8 feet onto uneven rocks that would surely break a leg. Then, one we cross the log, we’ll have to jump down onto another log. That junction is directly above the river, which could have worse consequences if we miss. We search back and forth for another option for ten minutes, but eventually we come back and stare at the gap some more. The second jump doesn’t look so bad. Nerve-racking, sure, but I feel confident that I can make that. It’s the first jump that worries me. I go first. I get a running start and then leap, backpack and all, into the air. How did I get here, I wonder? How did my walk in the woods turn into such a risky obstacle course? And just as quickly I know the answer: I love this shit. I’m never more alive than when I’m facing a challenge right at the edge of my abilities. It puts me in a flow state, lets me lose myself. An adventurous hike mixes beauty, freedom, and challenge, and reminds me that life is for living. In civilization I ping-pong back and forth between making other people happy and running from boredom. Out here, I’m not concerned with either. Whether I make this jump or not, I’m as happy as I have ever been right now. My right foot hits the bottom of the trunk, right in the gap in the roots. It is polished smooth, probably from the soles of other shoes, but it is dry and the traction holds. I hit hard, and the next few steps are fraught as I pull my speed under control and wobble on the hard wood. I catch my balance, then move down the log to make room for Roadside. His leap is about the same as mine, except that his pack threatens to throw him off balance for a minute. He wobbles, steadies, and then we look at each other. “Made it.” I grin. He looks shell-shocked. “Yeah.” The next log is a simple hop down in comparison, but the fact that it’s above a fast-moving river and there’s nothing to balance against or hold on to makes it perilous. I focus with all of my attention and hop down onto the smooth log. There is more traction than first appeared, and I’m able to land and cross without incident. Roadside follows. We pass the turnoff to Goldmyer Hot Springs. A sign tells us that it’s private property and costs $20. As much as I’d love to soak in a hot tub, we need to make miles, and I get the feeling that a couple of hours in the tubs would slow us down for the rest of the day. We continue on. A sprinkler sprays hot water over a small tub, accompanied by the heavy smell of hydrogen sulfide. A short ways up from there, a showerhead is installed on a tree, eternally showering water onto a stump below. I stick my hand under and feel the tepid warmth run over it. It will smell like boiled eggs for the rest of the day. The trail climbs uphill for a long way, then joins a dirt road and climbs up some more. We’re headed toward Dutch Miller gap, and we can see it for a long time. The trail breaks away from the road again and follows a brook running through silver granite. Ferns, flowers, and the occasional fall foliage adorn the brook. It is peaceful. We haven’t seen another soul all day. Over the gap, we descend toward a small lake in a hanging valley. Another brook begins and the trail follows it. A pool forms in the depression between two humps of granite, the far one with a trickling waterfall, the near one embellished with red leaves, and in the bottom of the crystalline pool, a collection of silver stones cast with a blue tint from the clear water. It strikes me as the most beautiful scene I have ever seen. I snap a picture, but a picture can’t capture the tinkle of the falling water or the loamy scent of the muddy earth. There’s no substitute for the present moment; we can’t take anything with us without giving up something in return. I put my phone away and just stand there to take it all in. After the lake, the descent into this new valley is muddy and steep, and I slip several times, once falling hard on my side. Eventually I find my way down the switchbacks and emerge back onto the PCT.
Roadside catches up just as I finish lunch next to a bridge. While he finishes his, I watch a chipmunk run back and forth across the bridge collecting nuts and seeds. It’s a good reminder that winter is close. The afternoon is a long climb—3000ft over 10 miles. We only do seven of the miles before we stop to camp. At the end of dinner, some deer visit and we watch them quietly munch on leaves. Even now, after all the deer I’ve seen, there is still magic in the appearance of these peaceful creatures.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
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