Day 27: The Finish Line

Mile 2,159 to the Washington/Oregon border

Miles: 17 (w/ detour due to logging)

I woke up lying on my side and facing the trail as a handful of hikers passed my tent. Overachievers. I snoozed my alarm and rolled over. Hike your own hike. Sleep your own sleep.

Eventually, I got up and prepped slowly. I was taking my time and soaking in my final morning ritual, memorizing how I placed each stuff sack on the group near my pack, and how I arrayed the day’s snacks on the dirt at my feet as I sat and inspected them. I had enough Gatorade powder and electrolyte tabs for six liters of water, but I poured them all into the two liters that I had. I may have to chew my water, but it’d be delicious. The ground around my camp was entirely a super fine dust that coated my pack, my clothes, and my body. My packing session was one long dirt bath. I was happy to get extra dirty on my last day.

I began my downhill cruise, hiking fast and feeling excited. With perfect timing, pikas in the rocks along the trail squeaked at me as I hiked past. I paused and squeaked back, trying to strike up a conversation.

A few miles into the day, I hit a logging detour, a 3.1-mile road walk on rough gravel roads. It was over a mile longer than the equivalent PCT section as it circumnavigated a hill rather than marching right over it. I felt a mix of excitement at the views, disgust for the clear cut, and general interest in the change of pace. Finishing the detour, I was back in the forest on the familiar old PCT.

Along the trail, I ran into one after another fresh-faced NOBO. They had all just enjoyed a few days off in Cascade Locks along the Columbia River. Several of them insisted that I go to “Shrek’s Swamp”, a trail angel’s house where he hosts thru-hikers that’s known for good grub and company. One NOBO stopped me and gave me the names of two different Cascade Locks breweries that will give thru-hikers free beers. I found out later that at least one of them has a cool “buy a hiker a beer” system where diners can add an extra beer to their tab that thru-hikers can redeem when they pass through. One of the NOBOs, rather than dispensing advice, just told me that his name was “Half Squat” and then, without further questions on my part, explained that old men can’t squat down all the way when they take a crap. He demonstrated, of course.

I hiked fast down the hill since I knew that Tom and Sean Friar were both going to start hiking in at 11AM to meet me on the trail and complete the final leg alongside me. I wanted to get far enough along by the time that I met them that they wouldn’t have to hike too far uphill. My headphones were in as I blazed down the trail, but my mind wasn’t focused on the behavioral economics audiobook, rather I was imagining scenes of donuts and burgers to come.

Tom and Sean met me on the trail two or three miles out of Cascade Locks. I was thrilled to see them, though had a tinge of sadness since this was the real beginning of the end. That tinge was probably why I quickly agreed when they proposed we hike a quarter of a mile back up the trail to Gillette Lake for a dip. Hiking backward on the trail would have been sacrilege at any other point, but I was more than happy to drag the trip out a bit now. Plus, I had wanted to swim in a lake for my entire hike but had never had company to encourage me to hop in, so it was the perfect opportunity.

We hiked back to the lake and dropped our bags on a tiny beach already occupied by half a dozen hikers. The other hikers were all smoking, snacking, and seemed generally morose, understandably bummed about the Southern Washington woods drudgery ahead. It probably didn’t help when the Friars pulled out cans of IPA for us, PB&J sandwiches, and kettle chips while we talked loudly and happily about the end of the trail just around the corner.

I polished off my sandwich and chips in record time but was slow to drink my beer, thinking that I had drunk it all when there was more than half left. The trail definitely made me into a lightweight.

I waded into the lake, took a deep breath, and plunged in. The water within a foot and a half of the surface was bathtub warm but there were icy cold currents below. I pulled my legs up and tried to float on the surface. No matter, I could feel the weightlessness release weeks of aches from my muscles and joints. I was so relaxed, I began to feel incredibly sleepy. Or maybe that was the IPA.

Sean struck up a conversation with an especially surly NOBO. His curt answers and overt disdain for dayhikers reminded me of my distaste for snooty hikers. Yeah, you’re a great thru-hiker, but just be nice about it.

Tom started talking to a friendly young couple who were just starting out on their Washington section hike. They were friendly and clearly excited about the adventures to come. One of them was going to start an accounting job post-hike so Tom, an accountant by training himself, unloaded some wisdom on him. Their packs were huge and each of them wore giant chunky hiking boots. I wanted to unload some wisdom on them myself, telling them how valuable it would be to ditch a few pounds and wear some shoes that weren’t pure blister-factories, but I held back. They were already on the trail and I wouldn’t have wanted to hear unsolicited advice when I started out. You’ve gotta get blisters and figure it out. This is not supposed to be a painless experience.

We packed up and cruised the last three miles, as I chatted it up with Tom and Sean, enjoying their company. They’re outgoing with tons of questions and enthusiasm for my answers, and plenty to share with me. I wish I could have teleported them in for portions of Northern Washington, though they might not have loved that.

We arrived at Bridge of the Gods, walking in a lane of traffic, and taking constant photos. We crossed the terrifying bridge slowly. It’s terrifying in every way possible.

There are no sidewalks so you have to walk directly in the opposite lane of traffic, watching cars speed towards you. The railing barriers on the side of the bridge are only waist-high, plenty low enough for someone to trip over and fall far to the rushing Columbia below. Finally, the cherry on top was that the driving/walking platform of the bridge is a grate with half-inch wide gaps through which you can clearly see the river. Death in all directions. The nice part though, was that many of the cars coming in either direction recognized me as a hiker and slowed down to wave and smile. Little touches of trail magic at the end of the trail!

As we walked across the far end of the bridge, I could see my mom, Biggie the dog, and my friend Peggy running across the grass to the side of the bridge to meet us right at the point where we came off. What a treat.

They greeted me with hugs and slobber, and we all walked over to my mom’s car where she, unsurprisingly, pulled out a smorgasbord of snacks including juice, beers, Rainier cherries, and a maple bar donut the size of my head.

I consider the first bite of that donut to be the real conclusion of my hike.

We headed to into Cascade Locks to Bridgeside Restaurant for lunch (used to be Char Burger). I consumed a giant blue cheese and bacon burger which was incredibly delicious, even after my head-sized maple bar. The two thousand calories and several beers almost made me fall asleep on my feet, but I maintained enough energy to take my remaining PCT supplies over to the town’s main hiker box and to dump them in.

Hell yeah, PCT. See you again soon

Day 26: Pika

Mile 2,190 to mile 2,159

Miles: 31

I finally have a trail name! It's Pika (pronounced pie-kuh). I've been introducing myself as Pike. Mid-morning, I stopped to chat with a group of three Washington NOBOs: Tank Girl, Bingo, and ____ Squatter (can't remember the first word of her compound name). We laughed at each other's trail stories and shared notes for the miles ahead. At a certain point, unsolicited, I started telling them everything I knew about pikas, the little rabbit creatures that live in boulder patches. I finished my description by saying that I had been trying to mimic the squeak that they make. Immediately, Tank Girl insisted that I demonstrate the squeak, offering to do her Yoda impression in return. I declined at first but was quickly pressured into it by all three of them. I squeaked and was surprised at how well it came out. I explained that it hadn't come out as well when I had been practicing it while hiking the evening before. One of them yelled, "that's your trail name!" All three spun towards me in unison and said in chorus, "that's it!!" I stammered that I wasn't sure about it and Tank Girl hollered back, "you don't get to choose your name! It's stuck now. If people ask you where it's from after you tell them your name is Pika, just make the squeak. Don't say anything else."

Otherwise, today was another grind. I pushed myself to do a big mile day so that I can coast into town tomorrow. The interminable Washington ridges meant that my 31-mile day was also a 7,000 foot elevation gain day. I'm feeling the strain in my calves, knees, and feet now. My right shin throbs when I hike fast, warning me with tinges of shin splints. Luckily, knowing that my finish line and a long rest are just a day away, I don't have to worry too much about the overuse injury.

As I hiked today, I ran into around 25 NOBOs, the most I've seen in a day on the trail. The dispersed herd of NOBOs must not be far behind. I chatted with many of them, interested to hear how they were feeling at this point in the trail. It seemed like half were worn out and just want to get the trail over with, while others maintained a positive attitude and were excited by Washington's treasures. The most downtrodden were a young Swiss couple who, as soon as they saw me, blurted out the story of how mice had chewed a hole in their tent last night and had been such a nuisance that the two of them were chased out of their campsite at 2AM, packed up, and hiked 5 more miles before re-setting up camp and going back to sleep. That sucks. They asked me if they should be worried about mice or bears in Northern Washington (congratulations, mice, you inspire fear on par with bears), I told them that I hadn't had any problems and that I sleep with earplugs in and my food in my tent. They seemed appreciative but unconvinced.

I ran out of gas at midday today. The trail wasn't especially hard, I had yet to tackle my major climbs of the day, I just found that every step required conscious effort. It was worrisome to feel so worn out. I had 35 miles left to go before Cascade Locks, and I knew how long those miles could feel if every step was a struggle.

Contemplating my weariness, I decided that I probably hadn't been eating enough. I had increased my mileage to 30/day for the past two days but hadn't increased my calories. I was still eating the same amount as day 1 on the trail, and the same amount as my 10 mile days with my Uncle John through Goat Rocks. I'm no calorie mathemagician, but I reckoned that I probably needed a snack.

I soon came upon a bridge over a twenty-foot wide creek. I sped down to the bank, plopped onto a rock, threw down my pack, yanked out my food bag, ripped off my shoes, and stuck my bare feet into the icy water: full recovery mode. I spotted a two-inch trout darting about in the water near my feet. Transfixed by the fish, I opened up my food bag and, on complete autopilot, ate half a bag of salami and a bag of wheat thins. In real life, you try to limit your snacks to a couple hundred calories. In hiker life, you force yourself to keep eating until you've consumed at least five hundred calories or, better yet, a thousand.

As I was strapping on my pack, about to head out from the creek, two SOBO thru-hikers who I met on day 1 strode up. It was nice to see their familiar faces. I hadn't seen them since I ordered chocolate milk in the grungy Summit Pancake House in Snoqualmie Pass, and they had spun around from another booth to chat with me. We stood by the creek and caught up. They remembered that I was leaving the trail at Cascade Locks, but they also knew that Cascade Locks hadn't always been my goal. They asked me how I was feeling about my impending finish. Having been asked the question many times in the past few days, I could feel myself grow defensive. I felt the familiar need to show that I was confident in my decision and that I didn't have any quitter's shame. Pausing for a moment, though, I realized that the question wasn't actually about me. They didn't intend to lord their thru-hiker status over me. Instead, the question was about them. They have a long, long journey ahead and are only one fifth of the way there. They wanted to be reminded why I was leaving the trail so that they could confirm that their reasons for staying on it were still intact. I told them that I was excited to find an apartment and to prepare to start work, activities that are all antithetical to the thru-hiker perspective. They relaxed and congratulated me on my upcoming finish.

I left the creek and immediately began a two thousand foot climb, my first of the final two big climbs of the day (and the hike). The salami and wheat thins were quick to kick in and the uphill hike helped the aches in my feets and knees to subside. It was a hot afternoon and I was soon drenched in sweat but this time, with a belly full of snacks and fresh-feeling legs, rather than a bedraggled city-slicker stuck in the wilderness, I felt like a consummate outdoorsman racing up mountains. I powered up the hill, pausing every quarter mile or so to catch my breath for thirty seconds and to peer through the trees that obscured views of the valley below.

I crested the first climb, reaching a nondescript high point barely distinguishable from the trail leading up to it and the trail leading away. Woods are woods are woods. I spaced out and listened to my audiobook of Predictably Irrational as I descended into the valley, knowing that another climb awaited me on the other side. A while late, reaching the base of the hill, the dread of the final hill to come started creeping in. It was already close to 7PM and every other hiker I spotted was either already bedded down in their tent or rushing to set up their site and make dinner. I envied their completed days. I still had 3.5 miles and a 2,000-foot climb ahead of me.

As I rounded a bend in the trail, I saw a thru-hiker up the trail headed towards me, the first hiking hiker that I’d seen in an hour. I paused as he approached, and he greeted me and asked me how I was doing. I answered, “alright, just a late day push, you know?” He gave me a nod and in a cheerful manner piped up as he passed me and hiked down the trail, “Hell yeah. You got this.” At first, his teenager-ish encouragement felt cliched and condescending. As it sank in, I realized that he was right. I got this. Hell yeah. In fact, his short phrase was the perfect trail-mantra-of-the-moment. I started hiking again and looking around me.

Hell yeah, mountain

Hell yeah, flowers

Hell yeah, sunset

Hell yeah, blisters

Hell yeah, ramen

Hell yeah, loneliness

Hell yeah, not purifying my water

I carried four liters of water from the last creek before my final ascent. Initially, it had felt silly since I was about to hike directly uphill, and I had gotten the water from a creek over which stood a creosote-covered bridge that stank of putrid chemicals. Best carry this tainted water with me up that big hill so that I’m not subjected to any nasty clean clear cold fast flowing water from streams up ahead, right? But the evening was hot, the trail was tough, and the creeks up ahead were rumored to be dry. Plus, my spate of recent dehydrated episodes was still fresh in my mind so I was happy for the comfort of packing heavy.

As I reached the summit, my final summit on the PCT, the trees shrunk, twisted, thinned out, and opened up just a bit. Through the gaps in the forest, I was treated to my most incredible sunset on the trail. Thanks to the forest fire smoke-filled sky, the bright sunset pink that usually resides far away on the horizon stretched all the way to me and over my head, covering the entire visible sky in great smears of a glowing deep pink color.

I was stunned by its all-encompassing beauty. I felt as if I’d spent the past month hiking toward the sunset and I’d finally arrived. The pink light illuminated the woods around me, casting shadows with pink highlights on the ground and making the woods glow with otherworldly color. As my eyes adjusted to the dusk light, the greens and grays and yellows of the forest faded out of the visible range until everything was a shade of pink. Before the trail, if I had seen such a scene in a movie, I would definitely have turned to Em and muttered, “well that’s just totally unrealistic.”

I continued along the ridge of the peak and the trees grew smaller until they were all about my height like twisted, misshapen Christmas trees. With my head at the level of the canopy, the sky became huge and glowed with light from both the setting sun and the moon. Birds chattered all around me, invisible but for an occasional jiggling branch or a blur of wings. Soaking in the 360-degree views, stopped every twenty feet and would turn in a circle, soaking in the ridges, mountains, and skies to all sides. I finally found my campsite, a single tent site right along the trail with only a downed log to separate it from the track. The site was split in two with a narrow bench log and a ring of fire stones on one side, and a sloped single tent site on the other, ringed by trees with barely enough space to walk around a tent. Next to the fire pit were a bunch of twigs arrayed to spell out, in all caps, “LOOK” with arrows below pointing in all directions.

I set up camp, found that I had enough service to text Em, and started making my dinner. I had saved a Knorr side dish for my final trail dinner since they’re a step up from ramen. Texting Em and giving the food time to rehydrate, I tried to tell her about the sunset and days travails, feeling silly as I struggled with service since I’d be back in civilization in less than 24 hours. I opened up my screw top food container, added a packet of tuna to the mix, and began digging into my dinner. I immediately noticed two things. First, the tuna was spicy though I thought that I had added a plain packet. I peered at the package, using my red light headlamp, and realized that the red light made all red text invisible. Under the red light, it had appeared to be a plain package with a white stripe across the front. Switching the white light, the white stripe on the package was revealed to read “SPICY THAI” in large blocky letters. Whoops. Second dinner realization, the Knorr side dish wasn’t cheddar and broccoli (my fave) as I had expected. Instead, it was chicken-flavored rice AKA the same exact flavor as my chicken ramen. I laughed out loud to myself. Of course, my last dinner would be a series of mistakes. Hell yeah, chicken rice and spicy tuna.

Day 25: Buggin'

Mile 2,221 to mile 2,190

Miles: 31

Big ol' buggy forest hike today but got to hike with Sean and found a bunch of trail magic.

Sean and I got up around 7AM. Will, our NOBO thru-hiking campmate who planned to leave the trail six miles down the path at Trout Lake, had already gotten out of dodge. It was surprising to hear of his plans to leave the trail this late in his hike, but I respect it. Hike your own grueling hike. Don't let other folks tell you what to do. Will clearly wasn't going to be swayed by hiker peer pressure.

Chatting with Will last night:

"Will, do you have a trail name."

"Nope. My momma gave me a name once, I sure don't need another one."

Sean and I took our time getting ready. I told him some trail stories about the first few weeks and the complications of starting the trail wallet-less. He told me about shenanigans at Capitol Hill Block Party and the various nature spots he's hung his hammock in the past week (not a euphemism).

We set out on the trail around 8:30. Sean's car was parked in a lot on the trail half a mile away but he planned on hiking a couple miles past his car with me to accompany me on the trail. We set our sites for him to turnaround on a spring where I'd fill up on water for the day.

Minutes into our hike, we ran into another hiker who let us know that a trail angel was giving away soda, beer, and snacks five miles ahead. Apparently, they had even made tacos for dinner for passing hikers the night before. Sean immediately changed his intended turnaround point so that he could join me in some trail hospitality.

We caught up as we walked, talking about everything from Sean's current work projects to movies to high school memories of Family Guy & Cheez It Club (ask Sean for the full name of the club, it's a paragraph long and much too complex for me to remember). Sean had brought the exact type of camaraderie that I had be yearning for on the trail. The miles flew past, only broken up by friendly conversations with passing hikers.

The trail magic was real. My first day-changing trail magic on the trail, leagues better than the mouse-chewed ziplock of peppermint candies that I had found on a stump south of White Pass. We came upon the trail magic site empty of trail angels but found a full cooler and a trail register notebook with pens. Rainbows most definitely shot out of the cooler when we opened it, inside were cherry cokes, zebra cakes, a bag of salad mix, and rolling rock beers. I jumped up and down with excitement and foisted my phone on Sean so that he could take a video of me re-opening the cooler and exuberantly describing the contents. Video complete, Sean grabbed a soda and I grabbed a beer. We split a pack of zebra cakes. Though I typically dislike Rolling Rock, it tasted sublime in the middle of the wilderness, never mind that it was 11AM. I had never had a zebra cake before and inhaled the chocolatey processed puck in two bites. After my beer, I snagged a coke. Refusing to rush our beverages, we stayed at the site until 11:30, spirits high with the snacks and generosity of the absent trail angels.

After Sean and I bid adieu, I charged down the trail only to find another cooler identical to the trail angels' next to the trail. I popped it open and saw more beers, fresh ice, and a bottle of Crown Royale. Well, this was unexpected. I took a healthy swig of the Crown, and couldn't help grinning with the hilarity of the liquor and the context. I continued down the trail, feeling a little light headed possibly from the booze but more probably from an overall excellent morning.

Soon after, hiking in totally normal fashion down the trail, a bee stung me on my left calf. There was no reason. I hadn't stopped, hadn't swatted the bee, hadn't called the bee names. The bee just flew up to the back of my left calf, stung me, and flew away. Just a plain old jerk bee. The sting sobered me right up. I told myself that the bee was just a messenger delivering a note from the wilderness: "this ain't a walk in the park, buddy." Noted, oh great wilderness. I'll stop having so much fun.

I popped my headphones in and listened to Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep as I hiked. I'm enjoying the book. It's one of the best classic works of science fiction, though it hasn't aged especially well. Nonetheless, it makes the miles fly by.

A few miles later, I ran into more trail angels!! Fuck you bee that wanted to harsh my mellow! I was the first long distance hiker they had met on the trail today, so they were thrilled to see me, heap oreos and Starbucks via on me, share their stories, and ask about mine. They soaked up my gratitude, which I was happy to deliver. As I chatted with them, I consumed a pack of six Oreos.

The bugs were horrible on the trail today. I found myself at a near run most of the day trying to move fast enough to elude the mosquitos. Though I dodged some, many got me no matter how fast I hiked. Each two minute break that I took would end in me panicked and trying to throw on my backpacking while spinning in circles to avoid the bugs. 

To take my mind off of the mosquitos, I began composing haikus. Here are the few that made it into record:

Speeding down the trail

Horde of mosquitos give chase

Uh oh gotta poop

Ramen and water

Rehydrate for thirty min

Nope. Too hungry. Crunch.

Thirty miles per day

That should always be your goal

Or just look at trees 

Dear Clif Bar people,

Why such a focus on paste?

Learn from Oreos.

Kill all mosquitos

But biodiversity

Ugh. Fine. Pass the DEET.

Late in the day, I set my sites on a trailhead that my notes informed me contained a picnic table. The thought of sitting at a picnic table was enough to motivate me to power through miles 15-25. When you sit on the ground all the time, a picnic table sounds luxurious. I was glad for my table-induced motivation when i found out that I would be claiming right up and over Berry Mountain. It was my final time over 5,000 feet elevation on the trail, and afforded some obscured views of Mt St Helens and Mt Hood, but it couldn't compare to the exposed ridges and vast views of Northern Washington.

Arriving at my promised picnic table at 6:30, I told myself that I'd rest for half an hour and then hike the final six miles that I planned for the day. During my rest, I talked with a friendly NOBO named Georgia and two older Washington NOBO guys who were considering leaving the trail after only 50 miles. I departed the picnic table at 7PM, stretched out my aching legs, and hiked fast to beat the night. This was the closest to night hiking that I've gotten. I never needed a headlamp, but I did set up my tent in the dark, and eat my dinner while wearing a red light headlamp.

These are long days. Tomorrow will be the final long day. I'm taking out more than I'm putting in, so it's good that the end is in sight. 

Day 24: Surprise Visit

Mile 2,251 to mile 2,221

Miles: 30

John and I timed our departure around the hotel’s continental breakfast, arriving in the hotel lobby at 7AM right when breakfast began. I took Jabba and Badger’s advice and loaded up, eating all of the “free calories” that I could. I piled a waffle, four sausages, eggs covered in sausage gravy, a yogurt, orange juice, and coffee onto the table in front of me, basically one of everything. I ate fast so that I could get down as much as possible and we could get out of there. John, the King Glutton in our family, approved of my strategy.

It took us close to two hours to get back to the trail intersection where we had initially left John’s truck. There were much faster ways to get to that spot, but we had taken a handful of wrong turns on our way to finding it the first time and John felt that it’d be better to “stick to what we know.” The Goat Rocks trip had clearly instilled in him a craving for the familiar. I didn’t complain. I needed the time to slouch in my seat while my system wrestled with the mass of heavily processed carbs that I had just jammed down my gob.

Arriving at the trailhead, I dropped the rear gate of the truck and popped open my resupply box to do my final food packing. John offered up his extra food and I traded out my Clif bar flavors and snagged a king-size Milky Way bar. That’ll be a major morale booster.

I hit the trail at 9:45AM. It was a late start, but I was fully refreshed and ready to hike hard. I put in my earbuds from the very beginning, finishing Malcolm Gladwell and starting Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. Fifteen minutes into the trail, I heard a commotion on the trees on my left side. I froze. The trees near the trail were too close together to see into them. Suddenly, the commotion turned into a pounding of paws or hooves or dragon claws or something else really big taking off at a sprint. A cloud of dust billowed out of the trees and I half crouched, my pulse racing, deciding which way I should dive off the trail and away from this mystery beast. A moment passed and the pounding faded. I realized that I must have crept up on a herd of elk and frightened them off. The surprise/terror was mutual. 

My first ten miles marked my descent out of the Goat Rocks and the beginning of the never-ending Southern Washington woods. The bugs quickly intensified, pushing me to hike faster, constantly swatting and brushing at mosquitos. I established a rhythm to my swatting: right elbow, left elbow, back of the neck, right knee, left knee, grab a spider web out of my face, breathe in a gnat, cough, spit, repeat.

Eventually, I emerged from the trees and found myself on Mt Adams. Funny thing about hiking the forest is that you can’t see things coming. Having hiked three days through thick all-encompassing smoke, I had forgotten to look up.

Logs Rule Everything Around Me

I was at the base of Adams, the timberline, and still the mountain seemed a distant spectral vision due to the thick smoke. Nonetheless, the scenery was gorgeous thanks to the streams, ponds, and blanket of wildflowers that encircle the mountain. The flies and mosquitos kept me from stopping, but I’d slow at times to admire Adams while I caught my breath.

This creek may look pretty but do not be deceived. It is a m*****f****** s** o* a b****.

I didn’t run into many hikers on the trail, so was without regular accounts of the trail ahead. That’s how I was surprised by the second worst stream crossing in Washington. Thanks to the hot temperatures and Adams’ melting snow and glaciers, the creek had swelled to twenty feet wide, waist deep, and milky opaque with silt. There were footprints a hundred feet along the creek in both directions, evidence of past hikers searching for a safe crossing. I spotted a small log spanning the creek upstream and headed the way. Stepping out a few feet onto the log, it bowed. My poles were useless as supports since the current swept their grip away anytime I tried to plant them midstream. I bent down into a crawl along the log, realizing that my task was no longer to cross the stream, but to find a way to retreat backward without going right into the drink. I gingerly crawled backward, navigating by touch and willing the log to break another day. Back on my starting bank, I hiked down the stream, finally finding a few rocks sticking out from its breadth that, hopping over them, would get me most of the way across. Since it was a better option than any other I had spotted, I began hopping out onto them, knowing that they didn’t extend all the way and consciously deciding that I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. That bridge, or lack thereof, came very quickly. I was perched on a wet rock with about five feet of rushing stream in front of me and only a small foot-sized patch of bank on the other side. I managed to plant one of my poles in the stream in front of me, told myself not to think and just focus, and I vaulted across. Even though both of my shoes were soaked through as my stepping stones had been partially submerged, I breathed a sigh of relief to have made it across. 

I kept up my 3 mph pace all afternoon, enduring a naggingly painful twisted ankle and bad chafe. Like the bugs earlier in the day, I established a rhythm to cope with the chafe: three steps forward, twist the back of my shorts to relieve the friction, three more steps, twist the front of my shorts. I hoped that no one was within eyesight behind me since I was constantly grabbing at my crotch. The chafe is real, folks. The hiking blogs that I had read were right on: the only cure for the chafe is not moving, specifically, sleep. But not hiking wasn’t an option.

Bucket to collect water gushing straight out of the mountain - so cold, so delicious. Not pictured: swarms of bees helping themselves to my water, swarms of mosquitos helping themselves to my blood.

I pushed on into the evening, hiking until 8:30PM. It was my latest and longest day on the trail: I finally broke 30 miles!! I finally arrived at a stream, filled up on water, and scoped out the area for a campsite. Though there were sites marked on my map, I couldn’t find them near the stream. The woods looked like they may have been cleared years ago but in the meantime, underbrush had grown up and fallen trees had blanketed the area. I was about to resign myself to clearing a lumpy patch just big enough for my tent when I decided to hike just a bit farther down the trail to search for the promised sites. A hundred yards down the trail, I found another fork of the stream (note: streams are mischievous and will fork/twist/turn to confuse you) and an expansive site with three people already set up. Luckily, there was a flat site open adjacent to the trail. I set up camp and chatted with Will the NOBO thru-hiker who had powered through all of the Sierras, Dova who was 17 years old and five days into her NOBO Washington section hike, and Spencer who was accompanying Dova on her first stretch and getting off the trail tomorrow.

We mostly peppered Will with questions about his NOBO journey. He told us about the hundreds of miles of snow in the Sierras and how, in addition to tough going, the snow had slowed him down to the point that he had run out of food during a 10-day section. Luckily, he was hiking with a group and could eat off of his fellow hikers for the last two days of the section. Wowza. He then told us about his Oregon adventure. Apparently, after having trudged through the Sierras, he hit a snow-free Oregon and accelerated to warp speed. He did all of Oregon in only 12 days. His average mileage was 35 miles/day. He saw that we were shocked and intimidated by the huge miles. He reassured us, “oh, don’t worry. I wasn’t doing 35 miles every day. It was more like 25 to 45 miles per day.” Oh, great. Good to hear that you had 25-mile rest days in there. He went on to tell us about a couple trail feats that NOBOs took on in Oregon:

24-hour challenge - start whenever you want, just hike for 24 hours straight. “Some people were doing 60 to 70 miles during their 24 challenge.”

50-mile day - you know, just a standard, straight-forward 50-mile day. “That’s always the goal, right?” Uh, yeah. Sure.

It turned dark, and we all retreated to our tents. I began my nightly ritual of journaling while eating a candy bar when I saw a light on the trail twenty feet outside of my tent. I set down my phone and Twix bar. The person took a few steps down the trail and I could see them through my tent’s bug netting. I squinted at the bright flashlight and saw that they were wearing a hat. Immediately, the realization sunk in that the hat was my highschool friend Sean’s signature T-Rex hat.

“You’ve got to be kidding. Sean, is that you?”

“Hey buddy.” He sounded tired but relieved to have finally tracked me down.

I jumped out of my tent, gave Sean a hug, and he handed me a beer, a Gifford Pinchot Pilsner. I was stunned and overjoyed to see him. Apparently, he had been texting me with questions, updates, and requests for directions for the past two days but I hadn’t had a lick of service and hadn’t seen a single message. He began pulling treats out of his pack: a bag of BBQ Kettle chips, oatmeal cookies, bug spray that didn’t smell distinctly carcinogenic, and more beer. 

Note that the beer is a Gifford Pinchot Pilsner which is quite appropriate. Also, note that Sean is wearing a dinosaur hat/helmet which is also quite appropriate.

We sat on a log next to my tent catching up, joking around, and just enjoying each other’s company out in the darkness in the woods. Sean told me that he had been hiking all afternoon, a total of ten miles up and down this section of the trail looking for me. He was able to check my GPS location from his car, but once he set off into the woods, he couldn’t check where I was. At one point, about to throw in the towel, he had given another thru-hiker a ride into Trout Lake. In his car, he checked my GPS location one more time and saw that I was on a portion of the trail that he had hiked through just an hour earlier. He decided to give it another shot and retraced his steps through the nighttime woods a mile from his car. That’s when he found me.

Thanks to one beer and my 30-mile day (hiking big miles makes you a cheap date), I was sacked out at 10PM. Sean hung up his hammock near my tent and we both crashed with plans to have a leisurely morning hiking a little ways along the trail together.

Day 23: The Rescue Operation

Mile 2,271 to mile 2,251

Miles: 20

We started the day nice and easy. John’s knee was bothering him so we eased down the trail at a 1-1.5 mph pace. I had expected a direct descent out of Goat Rocks into the trees and few views, but was delighted to find that we stayed on gorgeous ridges.

We traversed across a basin through which ran the headwaters of the Cispus river. The valley opened up before us while the morning sunlight shone over the far rim and crept down the ridge along which we hiked.

At Cispus Pass, the high point of our climb, we were treated to dual views, one back and down into the Cispus basin and ahead of us into a pristine Valley on the Yakama Reservation. Lord of the Rings panning landscape shots ain’t got nothing on this.

John’s knee got worse over the next few miles. At any climb longer than 20 feet, he’d grumble that I’d promised it was all downhill. “I said that it’s generally downhill. My app tells me that we still have about a thousand feet of elevation gain over the last 17 miles because of the little up and down bumps.” He didn’t love that.

Sitting on a log, mobbed by flies, we confronted the situation. He said that it’d probably take him another day, maybe two, to limp all the way to the truck. As the leader of the expedition, I felt responsible for finding some type of alternative. “Well, we could take a side trail coming up, hike to a nearby lake, and either hitch to the truck or call in distant family for reinforcement.” I knew it was a bad plan, but had to propose it to demonstrate our lack of options.

Then it hit me.

“You know, I could just push it to the truck, you could hike out to the lake, and I could drive over and pick you up.”

He perked up. “That could work.” He turned towards me. “Wait a sec. That’s genius, college boy.”

I had actually thought of the idea earlier but had dismissed it for one really good reason: I don’t know how to drive stick. Well, I had learned how to drive stick when I was sixteen on a really old Volvo sedan but, during my last experience, I had stalled the Volvo so badly that I had rattled loose a spark plug and broken the car.

“Do you know how to drive stick?”

I hesitate. “Yeeeah.”

“How long has it been since you’ve driven one?”

“Five years?” I said it in the way that anything that was a long time ago is ‘at least five years.’ I did the math in my head, it’s actually been 12 years.

“Great!” He was too exuberant over the possibility of escaping the wilderness and his knee troubles to notice my tone of uncertainty.

He stood up and, thrilled about our newfound solution, insisted on shaking my hand. He was only going to have to hike 7 miles to the lake while I hiked 15 and drove half an hour to pick him up. I told him that we could hike the next 2 miles together until his side-trail turn-off. He told me to get moving and that he’d just meet me there. I hiked away and immediately felt a rush as I hit my fast 3+ mph pace. My legs were rested and energized from the two previous short days and I was ready to lay down some miles. Legs and poles began working in unison and I sped down the trail.

The hike to the truck breezed past. My legs progressed from fresh to their familiar tired and sore state. I welcomed the soreness as it let me know that I was once again maxing out my hiking stamina. I was low on water during a 12 mile dry stretch (what a novel experience) so, same as my hike into White Pass, I listened to Malcolm Galdwell and dismissed the dehydration.

Arriving at the truck, I was giddy at my fast miles but apprehensive over my upcoming challenge. John, thinking that I knew how to drive stick, had given me a single piece of advice, the kind of advice you give someone who is a competent driver but who doesn’t know the particularities of your car. “Just start it in second gear.” Oh, great. That’s helpful. I’m pretty sure that the entire stick-driving experience is slightly more complex than “just start it in second gear” but at least I know the first step.

I climbed into the car, adjusted all the mirrors and fussed around with the interior to trick myself into thinking I knew what I was doing. Then, glaring at that strange third pedal, I depressed the clutch and the brake (see, I remember something) and turned the key. The truck lurched and started up. So far, so good! I eased my foot off the brake and the truck began creeping forward onto the rough washed-out dirt forest service road. It basically drove itself! I didn’t even have to press the gas; it would just rumble down the road in 2nd gear. This isn’t so bad.

Moments later, I arrived at a T at a gravel road and, turning onto the gravel, I slowed down while attempting to shift into third gear. The truck sputtered and stalled. Whoops. Well, one stall isn’t so bad. Back to second gear and my second attempt.

Half an hour later, as I pulled into the Walupt Lake parking lot, I counted the times that I had stalled: eight. “That’s alright”, I told myself, “at least you didn’t stall it a full ten times.” Then, in a crowded parking lot full of rugged outdoorsy head-of-their-family type men driving big trucks and hauling trailers, I blocked traffic as I pulled into a spot. The truck stalled again. All the dudes and families were staring at me, the grubby guy in the huge Dodge Ram truck. I started it up and tried to pull into the spot. The truck stalled again. Finally, on my third attempt, I successfully pulled into the spot and out of traffic. I had arrived.

John trundled in half an hour later, surprised and elated to see me. He had expected to wait a few hours in the campground for me to complete my long portion of the hike. He found me sitting on the bank of the lake, a ways away from groups of families with their awnings, coolers, folding chairs, and clean fluffy beach towels. My pack looked like it had exploded around me, I had ants crawling over my dirt-covered legs, and I was squeezing melted peanut butter M&Ms out of their rumpled pack and into my mouth.

I looked up at him and muttered through an M&M-filled mouth, “I went fast.”

He raised his eyebrow, “how’d the drive go?”

“I got here.”

“Did the truck handle alright?”

“I think so. It didn’t run into anything.” I pause for a moment. “Wanna know how many times it stalled?”

“Nope.”

“OK.”

We headed into town with John behind the wheel. As we hit the pavement on the edge of Packwood, we pulled over and began calling motels to find a room. Everything was booked. After half an hour, we found a room in Morton, 20 miles away. We decided to get dinner in Packwood first.

Our initial dinner target was a fancy Italian Restaurant that ended up having a three hour wait for a table. I was relieved since it was far to clean and proper for me to feel comfortable in my general disarray and incredibly short and torn up running shorts. For expediency’s sake, we proceeded directly across the street to the Blue Spruce Saloon, Packwood’s grungy biker bar. The sum total clothing I wore was about equivalent to one sleeve of the many leather biker jackets in the bar, but I saw the size of their burgers and knew that fate had led us there.

After dinner, we headed to Morton and our motel, with a quick stop at our old family home to drop something off. A few family members, Candace and Toby, were there for the night, and we surprised them. It was a hot night and Toby had been playing guitar in the buff in the living room. He threw on a robe and we sat with them, told tales about our hike, and ate blueberries from the garden with greek yogurt. It was scrumptious. After our visit, we headed to the hotel and I talked to Em for an hour before John and I crashed. We were so exhausted that we watched infomercials for 15 minutes before realizing that they weren’t just a long commercial break.

Day 22: Goat Rock & Roll

Mile 2,282 to mile 2,271

Miles: 11

Five years ago, I backpacked in the Goat Rocks and, looking out beyond Mount Old Snowy, first saw the Knife's Edge, one of the most iconic segments of the PCT. On that day five years ago, I told myself that I'd someday hike the Knife's Edge. Today was that day.

We started the day with a couple flat-ish miles in the forest. The perfect warm-up for a monster climb. Luckily, the monster climb was monster incredible. A thousand feet in to the twenty five hundred foot climb, we left the forest behind and ascended onto the ridges of the Goat Rocks wilderness. On most clear August days, the Goat Rocks ridges would entail broad views to the north with Rainier looming large. In our case, we couldn't see more than half a mile in any direction. It ends up that overnight a huge amount of smoke blew into the area. Chatting with other hikers, we ascertained that the smoke either came from fires in the north, or the south. Great. Actually, the person who seemed most knowledgeable (AKA confident) said that the smoke was coming from fires in British Columbia, in Canada. We chose to believe that guy partly due to his confidence, but mostly because Canada would be the most convenient source of the smoke as we were headed south.

Our progress up through the Knife's Edge was slow and steady. Since the trail follows the very top of the ridgeline, we were constantly faced with abrupt climbs and descents. We took our time, drinking lots of water as we were without shade for most of the day.

We had heard that the PCT crossed three snowfields in the final phase of its Goat Rocks ascent, and that some hikers had opted for a much steeper alternate route directly over the top of Old Snowy. The thought of bagging an ugly peak excited neither of us so, upon seeing that the snow fields were similar to those I had crossed in Northern Washington, we forged ahead. The afternoon snow was soft and the path was clearly blazed across the snow fields. Though I felt adrenaline course through my body thanks to the walk across squishy snow with a thousand foot drop and sharp rocks directly on one side, we made it easily and safely across.

Our final miles were a gradual descent into the rocky, grassy, Lord of the Rings-esque valley on the south side of Goat Rocks. Our mileage may not have been huge today, but the views (smoke be damned) and experience we're off the charts.

I must have accumulated a sleep debt over the past few days because, even with lower miles, I'm exhausted to the core. More funny stories to come in other updates.

ALSO, we saw a herd of mountain goats in the Goat Rocks!!! As we were ascending the final leg of the Knife's Edge, I spotted a herd of more than forty goats a thousand feet below us in the valley. Some were lying on the snow, some were munching alpine plants, and some were romping around with the mountain kids (baby mountain goats). This is forty times more goats than I saw last time I was here! They look like a cross between a regular goat and an abominable snowman.

Day 21: The Olson Party

White Pass to mile 2,282

Miles: 10

It took eons to escape our hotel's gravitational pull this morning. Between packing, eating, delighting in indoor plumbing, and my battle against the hotel wifi that continuously thwarted my attempts to back up photos, we didn't get out the door until 10AM. 

On our drive to the trailhead, we stopped at an outdoor outfitter for my Uncle to get a belt for his chronically sagging pants. He ended up convincing the owner to sell him suspenders pulled off a pair of ski pants. The owner acquiesced, "How about twenty bucks?" My Uncle John chimed back, "Sure thing. Is there sales tax?" "Haha. No." (Note: there definitely is sales tax in Washington) My mother and uncle then asked the owner about a fur hat that he was in the midst of tanning, and got into a ten minute discussion with him about the moles that my mother has trapped in her yard over the years and how she keeps them in ziplocks in the freezer in anticipation of the time when she picks up taxidermy as a hobby. I went to sit in the car; this isn't the first time my mother has engaged strangers in conversation about her plans to become an amateur mole taxidermist.

I was a bit of a stress ball since I wanted my Uncle John to have a good experience backpacking the PCT in the comings days. I had originally understood that he'd be joining for thirty miles, and we'd have three days. Ten miles per day seemed like a moderately reasonable pace. Instead, he selected a spot forty two miles from White Pass. Fourteen miles per day is not infeasible, but it meant that we'd need to keep up the pace and stick to our daily goals.

We did not stick to our daily goal. We hiked ten miles. Don't be mistaken, today was incredible. We climbed two thousand feet out of White Pass and onto ridges in the Goat Rocks. We had massive views of Rainier, smoky haze to the east, and the goat rocks to the south. Nonetheless, we're starting with a deficit, though it's not a huge deal since we have too much food and can always stretch the segment for another day.

We ran into a few thru-hikers today. With the double zero in White Pass, and the current slower pace, I'm fully out of swing with my thru-hiker crew. James, Jabba, Badger, and Jaro all pushed on directly from White Pass. Hayden likely passed me during my zero days. It's a bit melancholic to fall out of sync with the folks who helped me to push through the North Cascades, but I'm consoled by the notion that I'm "hiking my own hike." Having my uncle join me for a few days is the best way to spend time with him and share this experience. In a few days, when I rush out of the gates to power through the last 110 miles of the hike, I'll be back to the essence of thru-hiking: big miles, solo, deep in the wilderness.

Beginning his final section, I'm surprised to feel a tinge of sadness about the impending end to my trip. I think it's mostly because I've just recently become quite good at this thru-hiking business. My body can handle the big miles. I can set up and break down camp in minutes. I feel at home in my tent, on my pad, and in my bag. As strange as it may be, I have a routine. I'm also constantly up to my eyelids in endorphins. Those are pretty nice.

Tree knot happy face says "don't be sad"

Sadness aside, I can't wait to have completed this massive journey. When I finished my MBA, the last day of classes felt anticlimactic. It was just another lecture, much the same as my first days in the program. Nonetheless, it was an important occasion because I had seen it through and the sum of each individual day's work amounted to something important. On my last day on the trail, when I twist my ankle or run out of water, I'll want to sit down in the middle of the trail and quit, just like I've wanted to quit at some point every other day. But I won't quit. I'll keep hiking. In the end, those many moments when I just kept hiking over the course of hundreds of miles will have amounted to something important. So that's cool.

Day 20: The Final Preparations

Packwood, WA (near White Pass)

Miles: 0

Today was all about preparing for my Uncle John to join me for the next 42 miles, and three days, on the PCT. 

We started the day with our motel's complimentary breakfast: standard waffle machine and mystery meat breakfast sausages. I'm Beginning to feel as if food actually sits in my stomach and isn't instantly converted into energy. Weird. I had grown accustomed to the new normal of being a fiery locomotive that burned up coal as fast as you could shovel it in. Or maybe I just shouldn't have eaten so many of those zombie finger-looking breakfast sausages.

We spent the morning sorting gear and planning out food. Rather than boring preparations, my uncle and I share an enjoyment for the anticipation of the adventure and taking inventory of all of our stuff. Any downtime moment he had, John looked up maps and blogs on his iPhone 5 (which looks like a lego brick in my 6'5" uncle's hands) and narrated his findings to the room.

My mother took a nap while we sorted our re-supplies. Upon waking up, she demanded chocolate and the funnies.

The late morning was clothes washing time at a nearby RV park, the only coin operated laundry in town, where I cleaned my trail clothes and dried out my tent in the sun.

Eventually, bags packed, clothes washed, my resupply box stashed in John's truck, we headed into Packwood to get lunch at the Cliff Droppers, the local burger stop. "All of our patties are hand pressed right on the grill." John replies, "but don't you burn your fingers??" I wanted to explain to the cashier that my 69 year-old uncle is just giddy about our upcoming hike, which has made him quick on the draw with the lame jokes.

We then hopped into our two cars to drop John's truck off at the terminus of his section on the PCT. After a few misdirection, I took the wheel of the lead car and got us to the ideal spot via my iPhone PCT map and GPS. Emboldened, I announced to my mom and uncle, "move over, the younger generation is in charge now." They didn't love that.

Driving back to the hotel, John decides he wants a soda. He had been driving his truck shirtless all afternoon and didn't even think about a shirt until he was on the threshold of the store when he wondered out loud, "do you think they'll mind a naked man in there?" 

Back at the hotel, we gorged ourselves on the multitudes of homemade food my mom had brought on the trip, preparing our stomachs for the days to come. My mom feeds us homemade slow cooked short ribs and a caprese salad while we lie in bed, flip on the TV, and yell answers at Wheel of Fortune, Jeopardy, and Antiques Road Show (all the best TV yelling shows).

Epsom salt bath now and early to bed soon. Got some more hiking to hike.

Day 19: Family & Food

White Pass to nowhere (via Mount Vernon for family reunion)

Miles: 0

My stealth campsite proved stealth enough to avoid discovery last night. I woke up at 7AM to a brightly lit, empty ski resort parking lot and the sound of speeding semis on the nearby highway. I headed over to Kracker Barrel and washed my face and brushed my teeth in their bathroom. It was a small multiple person bathroom with only a single sink so I found myself dodging around other users and apologizing for my scattered items and general grubbiness. No matter, access to plumbing and clean water was a joy.

I picked up a breakfast sandwich and cup of hot coffee from the store and met six guys outside who had just finished their section hike north from Cascade Locks. They seemed to be military types and every one of them looked bedraggled and exhausted from the hike. One of the guys, drinking a 24oz Bud Light (note: it was 7:45AM), told me that they had finished the 150 miles in 6 days and had hiked 40 miles the day before. Woah. I could tell that he didn’t intend to brag, merely to say the words out loud because he couldn’t believe them himself.

My mom drove up moments later. I grinned as I hopped into the car and she handed me a gigantic hot breakfast burrito. I had bought the Kracker Barrel breakfast sandwich only because I thought that I’d jinx myself if I counted on mom-delivered grub. The power of the sandwich talisman came through, and I cast it aside in favor of the homemade burrito. We went back and forth excitedly with trail news, real world news, and exclamations of how bad I smelled. On the way to the annual Olson Family Picnic in Mount Vernon, WA, we stopped in the tiny town of Morton to put flowers on my grandmother’s and Uncle Steven’s graves, another moment to reflect on my Pacific Northwest roots. From the family plot, I looked up into the steep, tall forested ridges surrounding Morton’s valley. Rather than imposing wilderness, I saw them differently this time: inviting, healthy, living forests as much a part of Morton as the valley farms and the Logger’s Jubilee festival.

The family picnic was full of familiar food and folks. Unshowered and covered in dirt, I pulled on jeans and a button down shirt and somehow looked presentable. It was the first time that I had worn my normal clothing in weeks and they were surprisingly loose. I piled up so much potato salad, chicken, and lefse that my paper plate had two full layers and began collapsing under the weight. Family intercepted me on the way to a picnic table, excited to hear about life on the trail and my recent adventures. I set my food down and recounted stories, happy to share but tortured by my abandoned full plate of food.

We drove to Packwood, our lodgings for the next couple nights, via Mt Rainier National Park. I had spent the past four days hiking around Mt Rainier with few views of roads or civilization; it felt strange to speed past the same mountain admiring it through a car window. Though I was even closer to the mountain than I had been on the trail, it seemed to be just a passing scene, a nice view that we happened to glance in between lunch and our hotel.

We checked into the Crest Hotel in Packwood. We had a comfy room with two beds upon which I immediately spread out my dirty gear to take inventory, dry out, and consider my re-supply. My Uncle John arrived soon after and began his own gear inventory. Having learned to backpack in the days when they hauled cast iron pans in their 60 lb packs, he was giddy about the prospect of following my example and going ultra-light. He’s an avid outdoorsman and relishes the anticipation of the packing process. He was full of jokes and narrated his constant bit-by-bit process of shedding ounces from his pack. “This is way too much toothpaste!” He opens a brand new travel-sized tube of Crest and squeezes half into the trash. “Don’t need such a huge label.” He tears the end off of a piece of duct tape on his food bag that bears the label “food”. He leaves the rest of the label in place because he’ll definitely need a label for the one brown stuff sack in his backpack. “You cut your toothbrush in half, right?” He opens his brand new toothbrush and bends it in half, twisting it back and forth until it breaks. He brandishes it proudly. “Even smaller than yours, huh??”

I take a long shower, scrubbing the dirt off my legs and watching the shower water run dark brown. It feels incredible to get clean but the hot water irritates all of my shin scrapes and makes the hundred bug bites on my legs and arms itch.

Before bed, I walk over to the trashcan, and reach into it with my toothbrush, scooping up a dollop of Uncle John’s discarded toothpaste. Waste not, want not. He pipes up behind me, “have as much as you want.”

Day 18: The Dehydration Two-Step

Mile 2,317 to White Pass

Miles: 25

Woke up to Orion packing up his tent at 6AM. He’s pushing the 25 miles to get to White Pass by 5PM today to pick up a package at Kracker Barrel before it closes.

Note: Kracker Barrel is a convenience store in White Pass that’s a hiker favorite and that’s totally unrelated to the ubiquitous national chain of biscuit- and hate-mongering Cracker Barrel freeway restaurants. Go to Kracker Barrel. Don’t go to Cracker Barrel. Also, how crazy is it that crackers were once stored in barrels?

I gazed through my tent’s bug net, acknowledged Orion’s gusto, rolled over, and went back to sleep. It’s chilly and mosquito-y out there. It’s warm and comfy in here. Easy decision. Besides, I’m not supposed to meet my mom and uncle in White Pass until tomorrow so I’ll be staying there tonight anyway. No need to rush. I’ll take it easy today and roll into White Pass around 7PM or something.

Spoiler alert: that’s not how things worked out.

I finally got up with my alarm around 8AM. I feasted on my final strawberry pop tart in my tent, spilling crumbs everywhere and eating them off of the tent floor. As soon as I emerged from my tent, the mosquito smorgasbord began. The buggers put a pep in my step and, within minutes, I bid adieu to Old Goat, the weekend backpacker who’s campsite we had crashed and who had just eaten an entire Mountain House (deluxe dehydrated meal-in-a-bag, requires hot water, typically 2 servings), and I hot footed it out of there.

Dewey Lake was a beautiful site, calm and misty, in the cool morning air but the mosquito scourge gave me no time to pause. I carried a liter and a half of water saved from the day before and planned to fill up at a stream five miles ahead. Central Washington’s infrequent water sources, paired with my total lack of filtration or purification chemicals, made water planning an important task, but according to my apps there were plenty of water sources ahead so I wasn’t worried (ominous foreshadowing).

Climbing out of the lake’s basin, I ascended a ridgeline, hoping for some views. The top of the ridge remained in the trees and below nearby ridgelines, so I was rewarded with a splendid view of looking through close-up trees at far-away trees. At the crest, I ran into a volunteer trail crew milling about and resting. The first guy I saw carried an enormous antique crosscut saw lashed over his shoulder. Since we live in the age of chainsaws, I’d never seen a crosscut saw outside of museums and sepia tone logger photographs. He happily and unsolicitedly began telling me about it. Behind him, one of his crew-mates rolled his eyes. Like most people in the wilderness wearing pants and long-sleeve shirts, they were oblivious to the bugs and wanted to make conversation. Like most people in the wilderness wearing a t-shirt and running shorts, I was covered in bugs and wanted to run away.

The soles of my shoes are coming loose, providing easy-to-grab handles for stowaway plants AKA trail flair

A mile ahead, and five miles out of camp, I came across a stream and filled up one of my water bottles. I decided not to carry any more since I anticipated ample sources ahead. The lighter my pack, the faster I hiked, and the sooner that I’d arrive at more water. Yes! I’m doing the thru-hiker thing!

I listened to the rest of Aziz Ansari’s Modern Romance as I hiked. The book was good enough to pull me in so much that I’d laugh out loud at his quips and forget that I was trudging ahead. Finishing Aziz, I moved onto Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink. Gladwell’s anecdote-rich long-form social science lit review will pull me in, right? Kind of. The stories were interesting but Gladwell read the book himself and his dulcet tones made me sleepy. Also, I think Gladwell gets way more credit than he’s due and that his books should have a big “content aggregator - author does not come up with this stuff” label on the front cover. Final complaint, Gladwell pronounces the word “year” as “yurr”.

Descending into the valley, I sat on a log and checked my progress. 10 miles down, 15 to go. Half a liter of water left. Lots of water sources ahead. Time: 11:30AM.

I hike a few miles on to the next water source and find that it’s a scummy swampy pond. OK, not going to drink that. Moving on.

A mile later, another gross pond. I open up my apps again. Holy shit. All of the water sources ahead are ponds. Why the f didn’t that register before? I’ve got half a liter of water and 13 miles to go. It’s the hottest part of the day, and it’s a scorcher. This is not good. This isn’t fatal territory, I can always get sick drinking gnarly pond water, but pond or not it’s going to be uncomfortable.

I kick it up a notch. The trail is climbing but in good condition; I can probably hike at a 3.2 mph pace putting me in White Pass in 4 hours. I run into three day hikers who ask me how far I’m going on the trail. “Just Washington” and I speed past. I can hear them behind me mimicking my voice, “Oh how far are you going? Oh just Washington? Oh, just hundreds of miles?” Good one, guys, but I’m not in the mood.

The trail passes me in a blur. More ponds, each one scummier than the last. Malcom Gladwell is talking about Greek statues. Clif bars are out of the question since it takes half a liter of water to wash them down. Why do all of my Kind bars include nuts, chocolate, AND sea salt? Somehow there’s dirt in my mouth but I don’t want to expel liquid from my body to spit it out. I swallow the dirt.

During hour 3, my thoughts get a bit fuzzy. Maybe I should drink pond water. Maybe I should find a side trail to a road. Maybe I should stop and wait for another hiker to come along so that I can bum some water or use their filter. Dehydration is supposed to majorly affect decision-making, so I tell myself that I made a specific plan before I got dehydrated and that I should stick to it. But that plan was just “keep hiking”. The dehydrated devil on my shoulder whispers “it’s not a plan if it’s what you’ve been doing all along. ‘Keep hiking’ is the same as ‘don’t do anything’. You should lie down.”

Two miles out of White Pass, I finally find a running stream. Hallelujah! I’d been descending for quite a while and was pretty sure that the stream was just run-off from one of the gross ponds on higher ground, but so be it. Malcolm Gladwell is talking about heart attacks. That sounds worse than gross water. The dehydrated devil on my shoulder reminds me of something that I heard third-hand a long time ago, “you know, mountain streams purify themselves every fifty yards.” It sounds like BS but the dehydrated angel on my shoulder just shrugs. I drink the cold, delicious water, in small rapid sips. I lower the bottle and, for the first time, notice the vast quantity of horse crap strewn across the trail all around me. Malcolm Gladwell drones on about the symptoms of cardiac arrest.

I hike the final miles into White Pass feeling like I’m on a victory lap. I’ve got full water bottles and I’m about to eat some hot food. I’m not even bothered when, arriving at the highway, I remember that Kracker Barrel is half a mile down the road.

I walk up to Kracker Barrel at 4:45PM. Orion is sitting at a picnic table outside drinking a 24oz can of Budweiser, the contents of his resupply box spread out in front of him. Presented with an opportunity to sit on a bench or chair, all other plans escape my mind and I park myself across from him. He tells me that he too booked it to get here by 5PM. He tells me that he too did it on less than 3 liters of water. He tells me that the trail notes were wrong and that the store is open until 7PM. I smile and shake my head. So long as you make it through, it’s not a fuck-up, it’s just another adventure on the trail. I head inside for drinks, snacks, and the joy of indoor plumbing.

Since Kracker Barrel was open until 7PM, I stayed there until 7PM. I made calls for the first time in four days, drank powerade, and ate every edible-looking item remaining in their hot-food case. The three courses of my meal, in order, were a corn dog, an order of tots, and a “crispito” which ended up being a chimichanga full of molten meat-cheese. It was everything that its name promised it would be. As I eat the crispito, two hikers emerge from the store and ask us if we’d like a 24oz can of Budweiser clamato. Apparently, they tried a couple sips and couldn’t handle it, probably because clamato is gross. My hiker impulse takes over, “sure, I’ll take it.” It’s warm, somehow warmer than the ambient air temperature. Orion and I pass it back and forth, grimacing with each sip. Orion mutters, charitably, “it’s probably alright when it’s cold.”

I talk to my mom and, major surprise, we make a plan for her to pick me up early tomorrow for me to join the annual Olson family reunion in Northern Washington. It’ll be a culture shock to be plucked from the wilderness and dropped into a normal event, but all I can think about is the potluck spread. I picture a heaping plate of potato salad, swedish meatballs, lefse, and blackberry pie.

Em and I get on the phone and chat for three hours; the type of conversation that progresses beyond updates to narrating what we’re doing and thinking about. I feel giddy to be back in touch and on the same level. It’s been weeks.

Staying on the phone with Em, I scout out my sleeping options for the night. There’s a motel nearby with rooms for $190. Friggin ski resort towns. That’s out of the question. I could hike back to the trail and along it to find a site, but that would entail three miles tonight and three again in the morning. No way. My final option is “stealth camping”. Stealth camping is the thru-hiker term for discreetly camping in an un-authorized site, ex: on a dirt patch behind Kracker Barrel, or on a side road a quarter of a mile away. Orion wishes me good luck with a grin and heads off for the trail.

Eventually, I cross the highway and hop a gate to explore one of the White Pass ski resort parking lots. The lot is empty and set back from the road. I’d be out of site of the road, but the woods are rocky so there’s nowhere far off the parking lot where I can pitch a tent. I end up kicking clear an uneven, rocky, dusty tent-sized patch adjacent to the far end of the football-field sized lot and I pitch my tent. I send a panorama of my tent-site to Em and she responds, “you are so out in the open.” Yes, well, stealth campers can’t be choosers. At least I’ve got plenty of water and the crispito is sitting well. I fall asleep dreaming of tomorrow’s warm food, company, ample hydration, and indoor plumbing.