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.