Month: September 2018

Campsite at approx. PCT mile 2630 on the Holeman Fire Reroute to Canadian Border (mile 2653)

I wake up to leaden grey skies and the knowledge that this is it. Today is our last day on trail. And even though I know this intellectually I somehow don’t feel it, it doesn’t mean anything. Not yet at least. Everything is just, normal. Standard. Starman and I go about our normal morning chores, eating breakfast in the tent to avoid the early morning chill and the damp feel of wet nylon in my hands as I pack away the tent. Like usual, like always, like forever, we are the last ones out of camp. So it goes.

This morning we walk through a forest that seems even sleepier than I am. Only the occasional bird sings out, chattering chipmunks and squirrels remain silent in their burrows while we traipse through the damp understory, brushing dew from the grass and soaking our shoes. The clouds are a heavy grey blanket overhead, lulling the world into nap time. Pushing down all the sounds into the loamy green earth. It is time to sleep, for myself, for this land, for the season. This summer of interminable walking has somehow come to an end and fall has arrived seemingly overnight. Surprising. Though on the climbs my body lets me know that it is ready to be done, far more than my wanderlust mind will naturally consent to. My legs are strained with fatigue, each sinew crying out for the one thing I have withheld for all these months. Rest rest rest. Time to recover, time to be still, time to use my body in new ways to accomplish new things. But not quite yet. We still have 20 miles to go.

Our trail winds down into a low valley before beginning a long climb back out. Starman says he’s going to put in his audio book and I joke that he should be spending today in quiet contemplation of all that we have done this summer. He turns to me surprised. “Really?” I don’t know. It feels like what I should be doing, even though my brain cannot seem to muster any sort of profound emotional catharsis. This is simply my morning commute, eating snacks in the dirt is my lunch hour, our tent has become my home. All of it tangled up in such normalcy that I find I don’t have much novelty to emote towards. Humans are such supremely adaptable creatures, for good and bad. We can adapt to suffering and to great comfort, to wearing shorts in all weather and to climate controlled office cubicles. And I, and we, have adapted to this life outdoors. To the rigors of a nomadic life within the constraints of following a trail to Canada. And in the way that distance mutes the extremes of the past, I reflect on our five month hike and feel as though it were lived by someone else. Was that really me who hiked across the desert in 104 degree heat and spent an afternoon huddling under I-10? Me who minced terrified across snow fields? Subsisted on potato chips and American cheese? Dug and pooped in innumerable catholes? Or maybe I have simply come into being in the space between this step and the last, fully formed and filled with a stranger’s memories. I do not have the faintest comprehension of recollection, sometimes my life barely feels real.

Then ten miles from the border the weight of this entire rediculous thing becomes so undeniably real that I am reduced to tears. Though I cannot tell you exactly why or what I am feeling. Proud. Sad. Happy. Overwhelmed. Yes, overwhelmed is as close as words can get. What have we done? What have we failed to do? Am I any different today than I was 168 days ago when I stood at the Mexican border and looked north with a plan and hope and not the slightest clue of what was to come? In some ways yes, I have undeniably changed—though I imagine that these changes will only be visible with the distance of time and the space during which I can observe what new ideas will stick to my person and become me and which ideas will be discarded. Because in many ways I am not all that different today than I was when I started this hike.

There is a great fallacy within the narrative of adventure travel. One than tells us that travel will invariably cause dramatic change. We want to believe that a thru hike is the onus with which one completely alters their life. However, many or most of us who have undetaken a long hike will return to the lives, people, and cities that we came from. The details may change, but the essence will remain largely the same. Our experiences will manifest themselves in more subtle ways, ways that don’t make for bestselling novels. This story of city girl gone wild and then returned is far less romantic than what we want to believe. Honestly may be a great many things but it is rarely sexy. Of course the narrative of wilderness escape is not without it’s truth. Though from what I have seen, the people who are prone to eschew societal norms in favor of a life of adventure are those whose grasp on the status quo was already tenuous. Those with the fewest societal attachments and a nomadic personality before the trail are the selfsame people who may choose to relinquish their hold on normal forever. It certainly makes for a better story. But these people are not the majority, and they are certainly not me.

Four miles to the border and the clouds shatter apart, giving way to streams of sunlight and warmth. It is quite literally all down hill from here and I wonder if we will be lucky enough to reach the northern terminus beneath the sun. If I have leaned to do anything during the course of the hike it is to walk fast, letting my legs carry me quickly onwards. The bushes alongside the trail become a blur of greens capped with blooming oranges, reds, and yellows. But I barely see the colors, I barely register any of it until I see the clear-cut which demarcates the border. Etched razor straight across the land, this human marker of possession. The silly need to tell a handful of smelly hikers and unknowing animals that this right here is the border between two friendly nations. But behind the rediculous nationalistic meaning this strip of barren land tells me something else—we are almost there.

And isn’t it funny how nothing is ever like you expect it to be. The border clear-cut leads my eyes into the valley where the northern terminus must sit. Within 100 meters I can see the monument through the trees, not in a single great reveal but in a questioning “I think that’s it” squinting. And then we really are there. It’s right in front of us and I turn and hold onto Starman for a while and cry into his shoulder for only a few moments, my emotional depth having been exercised some hours before. Still, this does not diminish the astonishment that we’ve really done it; the knowledge that the odds were never really in our favor means that I never let myself fully imagine this moment. The unflattering truth is that I’ve always leaned towards being pessimistic and right over optimistic and disappointed. But today I am gloriously wrong and I love everything about it.

We are the only ones at the monument. And isn’t that fitting. Though the trail register reveals that today dozens of hikers have come before us and that some will certainly finish after, for now it is just us. For thousands of miles and many months it has been Starman and myself. How apt that we should arrive at the finish in the same way. Wide eyed and a little bemused with no one to stand witness besides ourselves. We spend an hour taking pictures, funny ones, happy ones, cute ones, until we can’t think of what else to do. I look to Starman and say “think about anything you want to get a picture of now because we’re probably never coming back here.” And in the resounding truth crater of that statement we are left dumb, staring at each other and not knowing what else to do.

When finally there are no more pictures to be taken and the trail register has been read and signed we shoulder our packs one last time. Leaving the little clearing and walking north into the forest, as it had been since the beginning, as it continued to be until the very end, just the two of us.

Thank you!

First and most importantly thank you to Starman, my boyfriend and hiking partner. Thank you for being our navigator, finding the most fun alternates, and giving me your pineapple gummy bears. This trip would not have been the same without you. I am so very proud of you and love you more than I can say.

Next, thank you to my parents for sending our resupply boxes, being endlessly supportive, and sending extra gluten free snacks and birthday cake in the mail. To Ian for sending our Washington boxes and letting us use your house as a mail drop, and never once complaining. You are so very appreciated.

Thank you to the Miller family – Carol, Bob, and Kyle for coming to visit us on trail. As well as Victor, Mac, Julie, Mihai, Angel, Patient, Iceman, Garbo and Connor, Aaron, Andrea, Mike and Joyce, for either coming out to see us or letting us crash at your place or giving us rides. It was always a joy to see your clean and shining faces.

Thank you to everyone who contributed financially to this blog via my Tip Jar —your support made this hike all the more feasible and I will always appreciate those who fund the content they enjoy. You all made me feel like a real writer. To those who left toughtful comments and questions, I read every single message and even though I didn’t always have a chance to reply, I was grateful for every one. And finally thank you to everyone who read this blog, be it once or every single post. Your support did, and continues to, mean a lot.

What’s Next for Me?

Right after the trail I’ll be traveling for a month. Before the trail I spent two years working multiple jobs in order to save money for this trip. And I am lucky enough to have a little extra in order to afford some additional travel. First I’ll be heading to Colorado for a week to visit family and relax. Then, in October I’ll be traveling to Thailand for three weeks with my sister and a good friend from school. I plan to do some writing about these adventures, so stay tuned!

After Thailand I’ll be moving to Seattle! One of the things I’m looking forward to most after the trail is fully relocating to Seattle. It is a city I have loved for a long time and I am thrilled to finally get the chance to live there. I will be looking for work, ideally in a creative capacity within the outdoor industry so if you have any contacts or are maybe even hiring yourself please reach out.

What’s Next for Wild Country Found?

Now that the PCT is over I’m going to be posting on this blog somewhat less frequently—I’ll try and aim for once a week when I’m traveling or have exciting adventures to share. You can always follow me over on Instagram at KayMKieffer or by searching “Kara on the Outside.” I post on Instagram far more frequently than on this blog, making it an excellent place to keep up with what I’m doing. However if you’d like to see anything specific on this site please reach out and let me know.

Brush Creek (mile 2609) to campsite at approx. PCT mile 2630 on the Holeman Fire Reroute

I wake to find that the rain from the night previous has ceased and that I have developed a hole in the top of my right shoe. Almost done, we’re almost done I think as we pack up under a watery blue sky which is threatening and occasionally delivering rain. Climbing up towards Glacier and then down towards bHarts Pass the wind threatens to blow away my hard won body heat, and nearly succeeds on the descents. Even as the sun reaches it’s zenith overhead the temperatures continue to drop, our only protection is when the trail switches to the leeward side of the ridge. Here the weak sunlight soaks into my dark rain jacket, warming me as I scurry down down down to the road at Harts Pass and our next snack break. As to the rangers warning the weather is changing, the days rapidly growing cooler, and I know that we are almost done. And, somewhat more remarkably, I am ready for us to be done.

On one of these protected ridges I pull over on the trail to let an uphill hiker pass me. He asks if I’m a PCT thru hiker, and when I tell him I am he jokes that he’s the one who should be moving over. The man’s name is Ash and he looks as though his style icon is Johnny Depp a la “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.” Ash lives in the quaint town of Winthrop on the eastern side of the Cascades. He was a smoke jumper for 15 years and says he feels partially responsible for the four large fires burning within 50 miles of where we’re currently standing. Going on to elaborate that back in his day the marching orders were to get fires out as quickly as possible, which has lead to unchecked deadfall and undergrowth cluttering. It seems a bit harsh to assume much guilt for his part in what was, at the time, a national mandate. Ash then asks me if I’d like an apple. With our accelerated pace through this section I’m in no short supply of food, however fresh fruit is like gold on the trail and I eagerly accept. From the depths of his old external frame bag he pulls the largest honey crisp apple I have ever seen. I take it gratefully, with nearly numb hands holding the apple as though it were the most precious egg, and thanking him profusely. He says he didn’t know he’d be seeing so many hikers and he wishes he had more to offer. Though of course the apple and conversation is more than appreciated or expected and I tell him as such. I have Starman stow the apple in my bag and we rush down the hill, all the more eager now for our snack break.

However, Ash is not to be the last kind stranger of the day. At Harts Pass we see Beehive, Spice Man, Crain Nip, Feather, and Slug sitting in lawn chairs wrapped in blankets. Trail magic! Twice in one day! This time at the hands of a man who I come to know only as The Mad Baker. A smiling giant of a man who lounges near his bright blue truck in shorts and a zip up cotton hoodie while chatting to the gathered hikers—all of us decked out in puffy jackets and clutching the provided blankets like lifejackets. He has sodas, candy, a miscellaneous supply of snack foods, and my absolute favorite – V8. I sit contentedly and listen to The Mad Baker talk about the places he’s done trail magic this year. Starting at Crater Lake and working his way north, having met some of the hikers present multiple times. It is how he’s choosing to spend his retirement. What a treasure. What an absolute kindness.

When I can no longer pretend that I am not shivering, and the sun has made a valiant effort at chasing away the clouds, we pack up to leave. Climbing along a sun drenched hill ripe with fall colors, and passing into the Pasayten Wilderness—the last wilderness of the whole hike. Standing atop the ridge in the clear bright blue center of a donut with dark clouds on all sides, a rainbow greets us as we drop into the next valley. A real deal bona fide rainbow, I can hardly believe it. Spanning from wall to wall right across the trail, welcoming us onwards. Welcome to the home stretch it seems to say, and in thinking about that, about the home stretch, well I can hardly believe that either.

Rainy Pass (mile 2591) to Brush Creek (mile 2609)

We leave Rainy Pass under patchwork blue skies which have clouded over into a bubbling grey quilt by the time we reach the top of the first climb. This far north the tree line has dropped to 6,000 feet, affording us an unimpeded view from the top of Cutthroat Pass. Rock spires crowd the ridgelines, black against tan, looking like peaking waves made stone. All the more imposing for the heavy clouds that push to the horizon and begin to sprinkle the lightest rain as we descend and then climb again towards Methow Pass. It would seem that the ominous weather forecast we received from the USFS ranger was correct. Falling temperatures and rain which may turn to snow at higher elevations are quickly approaching, the sort of weather that can slam shut the season. I’m all the more grateful we are so close to the finish.

With each pass the wind is a little more wild, the clouds heavier and darker. By mid afternoon it feels almost like nightfall. Yet despite this, I find myself lingering at the top of each pass, the more impressive views stacking up behind me rather than ahead. Though, with less than 60 miles left until we reach Manning Park in British Columbia, perhaps there is no better metaphor made physical.

Stehekin (mile 2572) to Rainy Pass 2591

Under low grey skies a bus full of hikers rumbles away from the Stehekin Bakery, heading up valley and back to the PCT. We are less than 100 miles from the finish line and people joke about how it would feel to be heading southbound, less than 100 miles in. What we all felt like in Julian, 77 miles into the desert hobbling into town on Bambi legs. The idea of this feels so completely overwhelming, the incomprehensibly rediculous task of walking 2,650 miles, that I can not think about it. After walking all this way, the idea of doing it again still feels somewhat impossible, too huge, too enormous, too absurd. My heart is a frantic bird throwing itself against the cage of my chest, as though only now am I beginning to understand the scope of what we’ve done. Everyone is silent for a long moment.

And then the conversation moves on, like it always will and the bus arrives at the trail head. A dozen hikers bumble from the bus, all tight legs and heavy packs who disperse up the trail in small groups. Bathroom, trekking poles, check all the small things, and then it’s time to walk.

Right of the bat we have a choice. We could take the PCT from the trailhead. Or we can bushwhack along an old dirt road which washed out in 2003 and has been left unrepaired since then, being deemed impassable. They reconnect in five miles, but the second option shaves off 1,000 feet of gain and probably will require some scrambling—potentially above a river. Of course, we choose option two. I long since made the decision to view this hike as an adventure in which I primarily travel on the PCT, instead of a challenge in which the goal was to adhere to the trail as strictly as possible. People do both, and both are fine styles in which to hike the trail, but I definitely alighn more with the former. When there is a more exciting experience to be had at the end of a comparable alternate, you can bet I’ll take the alternate. It’s more interesting to me, it’s more fun, more engrossing. Hiking over tricky terrain or having to navigate is more engaging than just cruising down the trail efficiently. Honestly most of our self designed detours take as long or longer than just sticking to the trail, but Starman is an avid map reader and he can spot spot some really cool stuff.

Within two miles we are scrambling over small ledges along the shores of a thrilling blue river. I constantly scout above me, looking for places where we could climb up to flatter terrain should we get cliffed out. Luckily it never comes to this. As often as we are handing packs down ledges as we down climb grippy grey rock, we are pushing forward heads bent into a wall of green saplings. And because you can never assume yourself to be the most rediculous person vicinity while on a thru hike, we look behind us to find six other hikers. Safety in numbers, if nothing else.

During this laborious diversion we see a cougar print, climb down some small ledges, and get some good scratches while wading through small trees and thick undergrowth. It’s silly and far slower than the trail, forcing me to really focus on what I’m doing, to really engage. It’s nice to be so connected with what you’re doing.

Cloudy Pass Junction (mile 2552, plus 6 miles to Hart Lake on the Holden fire alternate) to Stehekin (mile 2572 via Holden fire alternate and Stehekin ferry)

Starman and I are standing bemused at the registrar’s desk in Holden, WA – a small Lutheran retreat nestled in a valley above Lake Chalan, which has generously consented to allow hikers to detour through their resort in order to accommodate the Bannock Lake Fire Detour. The kindly woman behind the desk informs us in her gently lilting English accent that laundry is free. We are confused. But laundry is never free. Five months into the trail there are a few things I have learned and one of them is that laundry is never free. Except, apparently, in Holden where dreams do come true.

Showered and laundered we board the bumping meandering shuttle bus to Lucerne where we board the ferry to Stehekin—our last nero on the trail. Our last resupply package, headlamp charging station, town meal. Less than 100 miles to Manning Park, British Columbia. In a few days we will be crossing the border into Canada on foot, what an absurd thing to have done. We while away the afternoon sitting on the banks of Lake Chalan, chatting with other hikers, eating baked goods from the Stehekin Bakery, and staring across the blue waters of this great narrow lake. There is an intangible feeling in the air, electricity mixed with a coming sense of loss, an end and a celebration all wrapped into one confusing bundle of emotions. The hikers here, us here, there is a feeling that we’re going to make it. With all the odds against us and the miles between here and Mexico it finally seems possible that we might just make it to Canada.

Dolly Vista Trail Camp (2532) to Cloudy Pass Junction (mile 2552, plus 6 miles to Hart Lake on the Holden Fire)

The scent of fire smoke wafts up from the valley floor rousing me from sleep. Outside the tent I can see small flares burning in the dark, the occasional tree igniting then burning a harsh orange so at odds with the blue night.

Later, when Starman’s alarm chimes time to hike we find that we are once again, perhaps forever and always, the last people in camp. Our plan to camp on this ridge in an effort to see how the fires are developing has proven moot. An ugly brown orange purple smoke blankets the hills and valleys below us, catching the first rays from the rising sun. There is no way for us to know what is happening, though somewhat comically the largest fire burning on Flower Dome is far enough from the trail that we need not worry about it. However, the small whisps of smoke that could be seen burning along Middle Ridge are right above the trail. Probably. But of course now we can’t tell, so it’s time to hike. Hike right down into the smokey mess.

During the nine mile descent towards the Suiattle River we discuss what we can or could or should do if the fire is too close to the trail. Our discussion turns round and round with no new information and no way to gain any more. If we need to bail we could take a side trail down to a remote campground where there might be cars who could take us the roughly 30 miles to highway 20, maybe. But then we’d be a days worth of hitching from our passports and resupply box. So that’s not good, but neither is walking towards an active forest fire. Maybe there will be a ranger at the bridge with information. But maybe they don’t no yet if nobody has reported this. But maybe. But maybe not. Around and around we go as the trail takes us down to the Suiattle River. It’s a maddening frustrating pattern of discussion with no way out except silence or a change of topic.

At the bridge there is no ranger, but there is a note from Road Runner and Autopilot saying they’ve got no new news. Well, that’s better than nothing but certainly less than ideal. Then, the thing we’ve all been waiting for happens! A southbounder! Then another! Both of whom respond “what fire?” And that’s going to have to be good enough. With smoke itching my throat we begin a 4,000 foot climb towards Cloudy Pass, never seeing or hearing the fire that we assume to be on the ridge we’re climbing. This is literally the best we could have hoped for, as the easiest way out is through.

I am tired, more from the hours of circular discussion and worry than from the climb. Having grown so accustomed to the era of instant Google information it feels bizzare to be thrust backwards to a time where I cannot learn things in an instant. As so many of these moments have done, this experience gives me great respect for those who hiked this trail 20 or even 50 years ago when the national scenic trail system was proposed.

We crest Cloudy Pass via a convoluted and steep few miles. And as if Washington is looking to soothe us after a morning of stress, she puts on her best face for us. Mountains unlike any I have ever seen glow pink as the sinking sun shoots through the smoke overhead. Rivers drop thousands of feet in a series of fanning waterfalls to become turquoise lakes nestled in deep valleys. This section has been everything I wanted Washington to be, and inexpressibly more.

Campsite 2515 to campsite at mile Dolly Vista Trail Camp (2532)

The tent is covered in cold condensation when I wake. Our little camp hidden next to a rushing creek is well secluded from the morning sun whose rays cannot penetrate the chill. Even after an unusually long pack up time, during which we work to delay the inevitable moment when we must leave our warm bubble and venture outside, it is still cold. I wait until the absolute last minute before stripping off my puffy jacket, packing it away in a hurry and starting to hike before l can fully appreciate how cold my arms are.

However, immediately the trail begins to climb. Winding through thick forests below the massive jagged shoulders of Glacier Peak. Below the trees roll towards a precipice and drop sharply from view, above they cede to the granite and snow and sky. The world is two toned, green on bottom, grey blue on top. Smoke from wildfires has blown in on the morning breeze, dulling our views and smudging the pale peaks into the sky. We climb steeply up and over our first ridge of the day on trail that tilts towards the valley floor as though wishing us to slide right off and down into the dark forest. Our first climb deposits us at a small creek. Rushing over bright green moss and achingly cold against my fingers as I filter water. With sudden ferocity the sun blasts from around the ridge, flooding the creek with light and vaporizing morning dew instantaneously into humidity.

We climb again. And again. Up towards the sky where the trees cannot grow and even the green grass is now tinged with the yellow of oncoming fall. From on high the skyline in all directions is crowded with broken grey teeth of mountains. We are nothing more than small mammals standing in the center of a giant earthen maw waiting to snap closed and swallow us whole. The land here is beautiful in a way that rings of eons of cold, ice, and the grinding of rock and water until the earth is worn away into shattered spires and deep chasms.

With no where left to go we drop into one of these chasms. Winding down down down to a river of milky white which carries the smallest bits of mountain down towards the sea in the slow unrelenting manner that it has always shaped this land. And when there is no more down to be had we again look briefly towards the sky and climb into the forest on a trail that marches this way and that. Switchbacking relentlessly until time and distance fall out of relation to each other. The river grows smaller and smaller below us, but the sky is ever as big, the trees ever as grand, and looking up only serves to tell us that we have a long way to go. So I chose not to look, only to walk with slow measured steps until the ground tilts the other way at last. And my legs unspool underneath me. I am a rag doll, a puppet with floppy limbs and joints made of string ambling along the downhill like learning to walk again. Finally coming to rest beside a happy steam rushing down in the warm afternoon air, a joyous burbling sound. Food and drink, simple sweet pleasure before the going.

It hurts to move again, as it almost always does. But I prod myself to my feet, heading towards the horizon where a plume of white mars the great blue sky. What is that now? With so many kinds of light trapped in deep valleys or else ricocheting from rock and snow, what is that smear which eats away at the sky?

A fire. A new one by the looks of it. With another angry friend burning nearby. We stand with Autopilot and Roadrunner for a long time looking at maps and compass trying to decipher the squiggles of topography and if that fire is burning right in our path. The plan to hike down into another dark valley is put on hold and in the end seven of us huddle on a ridge top campsite and watch the fire spread across the hillside. Two valleys over and yet no airplanes. Does anybody other than us know about this fire? Who is there to relay this information to the proper parties if not us, so removed from contact with the outside world as we are now?

The setting sun darkens the sky, concealing the jagged teeth of mountains that surround us on all sides. What to do, what to do, what to do. Asking is all we can do as bright red flares from across the valley, piercing through the smoke which we can see but not yet smell. It is beautiful in its own brutal way.

Sally Ann Lake (mile 2494) to campsite 2515

If you’ve failed to pick up on the subtle clue I left in the post title, I very much dislike dealing with my period on trail. Periods in general are something that almost nobody was talking about when I researched the trail. But let’s face it, for most people who have a period, a five month hike will require you to deal with it at least five times. If you’re someone who doesn’t have a period, I’d still encourage you to read on, since half the population deals with this on a monthly basis for a significant part of their lives; read: around 40 years. And, if your sex ed was anything like mine, it spent an uneven amount of time focused on the male body, so perhaps you’ll learn something, or at the very least develop a little sympathy.

Here’s why I’m riding the struggle bus today:

1. I’m super hungry in the week before my period, this sometimes extends to the first day as well, which can be a real drag if I’ve forgotten to pack out extra food.

2. The first day of my period I am so tired. All of the tired. Very very tired. Unfortunately I still have to get in a full day’s hiking, instead of a full days lounging around watching television.

3. Have you ever dealt with cleaning a menstrual cup? It’s not the best even when you have a private bathroom and clean running water. However when you need to dig a cathole every time you need to empty your cup (read: several times a day) and you only have the water in your bottles to clean up with, the struggle for hygiene is exacerbated. Oh and it takes forever to dig said cathole ever time I baño. If you’re a tampon user on the other hand, now you’ve got to pack those both in and out. I hope you brought enough!

4. Hiking uphill with cramps is in fact a torture method developed by Satan himself. Thanks, Satan.

5. Sometimes my period is right on time. Sometimes, especially after a very difficult section, it’s a few days late. But who doesn’t love a little free bleeding spontaneity in their lives?

6. Not to sound like an absolute cliche, but yes being on my period can royally screw with my hormones. Doing any sort of aerobic exercise is hard verging on impossible when I’m crying. And why am I crying? Oh because Hedwig just died in HP7, and now I’m sniffling mess facing a 1,200 foot climb at the end of the day.

What about you? Do any of my period having humans have tips to share for how they function on the trail? Or funny stories to tell? I wanna hear ’em!

Janus Lake (mile 2474) to Sally Ann Lake (mile 2494)

There is a time when the tail begins to feel different. That time is right around four in the afternoon. The sun has fallen from it’s zenith and with the benefit of extra atmosphere shines a warm light across the world. Grey bottomed clouds begin to cluster in the sky. By the time the earth has gone dark for the day these clouds will have pulled up close together to form a thick blanket, obscuring the stars from view, muffling all sounds and ushering us to sleep. But for now they float benignly, casting shadows upon the ground and giving depth to the vast glacial valleys that stretch into the distance whereupon they become snow capped peaks.

This time of day, this aptly named golden hour, if called so more for it’s soothing light than the actual amount of time it weaves magic into the very being of everything it touches, has begun to creep earlier into the day. Where as previously we had to hike well into the evening hours to experience it, now we are treated to this light show shortly after lunch. Meaning much of our afternoon and time in camp is spent in a sort of real time nostalgia. For it is nearly impossible to feel anything but poignant sense of the passing of time. And on the light comes the wind of evening, bringing with it the biting chill of fall. It is the same wind that during my childhood signaled the end of summer and the impending start of school.

This hike, has in so many ways felt like an extended summer vacation. So alike my childhood when I would spend countless hours outside, exploring the trails and lakes near my home while my skin baked into a dark golden brown. And so too like my childhood, I have begun to look forward to fall. If not for the start of the school year but for the start of new things. When I was a child I always found myself looking forward to the start of school. Those long summer days which at first seemed full of endless promise had spooled out around me, filled with adventures great and small. Yet, by the last weeks I had grown accustomed to long bike rides and days spent jumping from makeshift roap swings into too-shallow lakes. As hard as we might try, it is nearly impossible to appreciate what we have all of the time. Summer is a delight because there is winter. Education, learning, challenge is enjoyable because of the freedom and boredom of the summer. I crave the contrast, the newness, the change. All of which are coming whether I want them or not. So for the time being I will revel in the long warm light of these last precious days of summer knowing that when they are gone I’ll feel foolish for ever wanting anything else.

Stevens Pass (mile 2464) to Janus Lake (mile 2474)

Starman and I are sitting in the back of Garbo’s Subaru as she and Connor whisk us back to the trail. We are all four of us showered and laundered, deodorant and shampoo mingle pleasantly in my nose. I wonder how quickly after the trail I’ll stop noticing how good non hikers smell. How many days after leaving the trail will it take for the smell of fabric softener to no longer send me until odorous fits of delight. All this weekend, while I watched an adorable young couple exchange their vows and then danced into the night surrounded by Starman’s college friends, I marveled at how many ways there are for people to smell good.

We are dropped at the base of the Stevens Pass ski area, where we will climb 10 miles out of a valley on this half day. The long labor day weekend means that the trail is full of day hikers and weekend backpackers streaming back to their cars. Clothes bright and unbleached by the sun, wafting smells of artificial pine, vanilla, and clean laundry. This afternoon the trail is a two lane highway and we are forced to stop time and again to allow folks to pass. I am grateful for the numerous breaks, it is a perfectly warm but not too hot late summers day and I am content to stand along the side of the trail and soak in the day. Also my pack is irrationally heavy and hiking uphill is a real struggle.

For the last two sections I have been cutting it very fine on food. And you know what? It sucks. Going to sleep and waking up in the middle of the night hungry, it sucks. Rationing food at every meal, it sucks. Drinking coffee at lunch breaks to curb your appetite, it sucks. Pushing miles on the last day because both you and your partner are going to either be really hungry or completely out of food, yep it sucks! But now we are down to our last two sections on this entire trail and I’m not going to let them suck. So my pack is really heavy with almost six days of food crammed into it. Honestly, I’ve probably over packed on food but #YOLOSYMAWHGS (you only live once so you might as well have good snacks.)

In thru hiking it seems nearly impossible to avoid some level of discomfort. After the infamous hiker hunger has set in the choice is between being hungry and having a light pack, or having enough food and a heavy pack. It’s about finding the discomfort you’re willing to deal with. And in my case I’m really strong but kind of a jerk when I get hangry, so extra snacks and a heavy pack it is.