On Being… A Trail Journal Part 2

Day 4    Down to the Muddy Crossing

It’s a funny thing about going SOBO.  While I am out there, I meet most everybody on the trail who are heading north. I cross paths with NOBO hikers, and there are a lot of them. I get to ask what’s ahead. I also get to hear a variety of reports based on their individual perceptions, opinions and confidence level. My first clue this may be a problem, was the woman who warned me about the narrow Eagle Creek ledge. I kept looking for a part that was so death defying, I’d have to take off my pack and push it ahead (like she did). I never found that part.

Now when the Seven told me of the upcoming Muddy Creek crossing, they said it was no big deal and there was even a rope to hang onto if I was worried. So, I put it out of my mind and focused instead on the Sandy River. This one they said was more, well, sketchy. A bundle of narrow trees was the one and only bridge; they crossed by getting in the water and hanging on to the bridge for support. This seemed like a good fall back position so while the crossing had me worried, I tried not to focus on it. Well, not too much.  Even though I was recognizing I was getting a variety of perspectives on the crossing, I did continue to ask for the opinions of many of the thru or section hikers coming my way.  Like, most all of them.

And then, there was today. Where I learned much more about being in the moment and paying attention to where I was actually at, as opposed to where I would be in 11 miles down the trail.

Nothing to worry about!

When I get to Muddy Creek, I am taken aback.  It’s a silty, glacial, roaring torrent of a creek! The water was much more than the “walk in the park” I had imagined when I arrived after an eventful and long trail. I stood on the bank and looked at the 20 foot wide stretch of white water.  It was moving fast so I dropped my pack and tested the crossing. I took my shoes off and barefoot, used my trekking poles to probe the depth.  It wasn’t too bad at 2:30 in the afternoon and I  got half way across before I retreated back to contemplate my next move. Camp or cross? Camp on the other side, or continue on? After everything that had happened, I just wasn’t sure, it seemed too early to stop for the day. Hungry and tired, I sat under a tree by the log crossing and ate. I was surprised by the strength of the creek and suddenly, I was overwhelmed with fatigue so I lay down and took a nap.  The noise of the water drowned out my thoughts, the sun was warm, the grass was soft and I was just so tired. I felt like Dorothy in the poppy fields (Wizard of Oz reference here).

Some time later, I awoke and decided to try the log crossing…  just to see if I could.  Across the creek lay some seriously large trees.  Amazingly, they had fallen over right at the edge, they bridged the creek and they were level!  A natural bridge of two big logs with exposed roots on one side (that you’d have to climb over), then using the rope on the top log, you could walk on the bottom log right across. Easy, right? Shades of Eagle Creek, right?

Wrong. Imagine if you will, very large trees, and when you crawl out on the bottom one, you notice the rope you are clinging to is frayed and somewhat rotten. Added to that, the top tree is so round, it pushes you away from the log in an arch…. and you are carrying a heavy pack AND you have fallen 3 times already today so you doubt your surefootedness.

After my nap, I thought I would try it without the pack. For practice. Did I mention how these logs are at least 10 feet in the air above the creek? Fear of heights? What fear of heights? I got to the logs, walked out away from the edge about 5 feet and was scared by the drop. And the weak rope and my own weak grip. No way I’d do it with a pack on. I’d have to lean out over the bulge of the log and all the stubby branches too. Dear GOD! I got back to safety and stood at the end of the root side as a young hiker approached the logs from the south side. He was thin and tan, his long light hair swung about as he nimbly leaped on some lower downed logs. He was wearing neon yellow running shorts to go with his lightening print gaiters. Then he came over to the double log rope nightmare. He tested the ropes, walked easily across and right up to where I was standing at the root ball.

“Are you a thru hiker or a section hiker?” he asked.

“A section,” I replied, shouting a little over the noise of the rushing creek.

“Cool,” he said, then asked, “How far?”

“I’m going to Crater Lake.”

“Cool.”

His level gaze was unsettling.  I stammered, “You made that log look easy! It’s too scary for me, I’ll have to ford it.”

“Well, I can take your bag across for you if you want,” he offered.

I took a split second to ponder this offer and I did not turn it down! “Really? That would be great! I was just trying to decide if I should go over now or in the morning.”

He looked at me seriously. This was one serious kid. He said, “Well, you’ve got to cross it sometime.”

We talked a bit about campsites and he said there were some on the other side but they were expecting people to be coming in later and if I went now, I’d get to pick my spot. Well, there was no denying this young man’s logic. He scouted about while I put my pack in order and then he hefted it up and nimbly waltzed across the top of the log like a squirrel.

Note the squirrel hiker. Looks easy from here.

I made my way down to the ford and took my shoes off again, tied them together and draped them around my neck.  Taking a deep breath, I began to wade. The water was higher from when I first got there. I didn’t think that much time had gone by, but what had been up to my knees was now pulsing up mid thigh and seemed even stronger. I used my poles, trying to find the shallow places, the water was white with silt, I was stabbing blindly, feeling around the submerged rocks. My focus intensified to one step, hunt with my pole, another step, shift my foot. Then the next step. Then a deep drop off, hunt again, there, upstream it was shallow… step forward then over and then, finally, a few more steps and I was out. Phew! I was so glad someone had been there, just in case! But when I turned to look, my trail angel was gone. My pack was there to greet me, but I was alone.

I laughed a little at myself, I’d heard you should never cross alone.  But just knowing someone was there boosted my confidence.  Looks like I could cross a creek alone if I had to. It helped that I didn’t have the pack though… that thing had already tossed me about enough today. My heart was pounding when I got to shore and I sat down on a rock to put my shoes back on.

I shouldered my pack and climbed up to the south bank campsites. The forest was lovely, moss covered old growth trees in a grove of soft moss bedding that stretched up along the creek. I found a wonderful place to pitch my Ultra Light tent and while I did, my trail angel and his friend came over to visit. They were two High School students from Southern Oregon. The tent was admired and stories were shared. I was impressed that two young men were on the trail together.  They hadn’t even finished High School yet.  What an adventure for them!

Earlier today, while on the trail, I vowed to “stop telling my story”.  Everyone does it, ‘where are you going?  Where are you from? ‘ It’s become a right of passage, or, your ticket into the trail club. I think about it and wonder why. I feel like my ego is getting off on this whole trip. “Here I am! Here’s what I’m doing! Yes, I’m going solo! Yes, all the way to Crater Lake!” Which I already feel weird about since I had intended to go to Ashland, but now my trip is truncated. And sometimes I even add that in the story, for what reason I don’t know. I get to practice this vow and break it over and over… frankly, my lack of self restraint is bothering me.  I found myself narrating my tale again to this new audience, then later feeling annoyed at myself for yet again, breaking my promise.

This morning I got on the trail early, skipping breakfast because I knew I had 11 miles to cover. I went 4 miles in 2 hours, past a logging operation, past the sizzling high voltage towers, past the car at Lolo pass who’s back window had been shattered and presumably its’ contents ransacked.

Hood peeks thru the towers of power.

I was walking along and eating “second breakfast” when I tripped and flipped forward into the huckleberry bushes. There are bushes everywhere along the trail, the berries are at their peak and have been a big part of my breakfast/snack routine for the past few days.  I crash right into them and roll onto my poles. I’m okay, but a little shook up. It was such an utter surprise, I did not see it coming, nor could I stop it from happening.

I climb a few more miles when I cross paths with a 70 something woman and her younger companion who were hiking all of Oregon and Washington. You GO girl!! She was inspirational… I wish I’d gotten her trail name. She teases me for eating all her berries, I tease her for eating all of mine. I was glad to meet a hiker who was taking the time to enjoy the wonderful huckleberries, they really were everywhere and so worth a pause here and there. I climb on before finally hitting the ridge then down into the Muddy Creek basin. I was thinking to myself I was making such good time, I could cross the Muddy and continue on. I felt great! And then, before I knew it, my foot slips, my hip rolls and off I go, pitched right off the trail and into the pine needles along the side of the trail. WTF? Again?! I’m glad it’s a soft landing but my ankle rolled a little on the way down. I’m stunned that it happened so fast and for the second time. I think of all the sketchy places where a fall like this could mean very bad things. Places where there is no side of the trail to land. Probably need to put my personal locator beacon, the INREACH…. actually in reach!

I also think about how the previous night, talking to my camp-mates, when they say they are scared of cougars… I reply with this nugget:

“You’d be lucky to see a cougar. The things to be scared about are falls, spraining your ankle, maybe even lightening. You’re much more likely to encounter one of those fears.”

So prophetic. Well off I go again, I focus on the trail and tell myself I had better just stay at Muddy and rest up before crossing. Then, in a few more miles, I begin to think about how much ground I’m covering and how I’ll get over the creek and get closer to the Sandy when, WHAM! A rolling rock slides out from under my foot and this time I went down on one knee and the PCT has her payment as blood is drawn.

“Okay! Okay! I get it! I’ll stay at the Muddy! I promise!”

You can bet I was focused on the trail after that. Every single footfall. I made my mind stay on the present moment, And having focused so intently, I was so very tired by the time I reached the Muddy. My body was tired and told me so in the only way it could. Just because it was early didn’t mean I could push past 11 miles. I hadn’t really rested, just a quick stop or two all day. I need to take it easy and stick to my plan. My body needs to rest, it’s having some issues with the trail. Tomorrow is some major elevation gains, another 3 thousand feet, and now my ankle is a little tweaked.

The trail down to the ford. High water in the evening.

Anyway, SO GLAD that is over! I went back down to the creek before bed and it had rose even more. Tomorrow is a two mile hike to Sandy. Gulp. I will be getting to it first thing, so it should be easy to ford. I keep hearing how the logs are narrow and sketchy and even slippery and wet. But, as wonderful as that sounds, I will leave it for tomorrow. Right now, I’m all cozy in my tent. I don’t have a problem right now. I trust in the Universal energy to make my way smooth, the trail do-able. I’ve been learning about the power of NOW (reading EckhartTolle lately) my mind is not in charge. So, there, mind! You and your fears can just step aside for now.

Mossy site.

Day 5 Crossing the Sandy (lived to tell the tale). And finally, a solo camp!

I know I am sometimes all over the map chronologically, so today I will do my best to be sequential.  But wow… what a day!

I awoke just as it was starting to get light, the birds were singing their first song of the day and I was eager to get the Sandy River crossing over and done with!  I packed up as fast as I could and this time, made a hot breakfast to fortify me for what I saw as my greatest challenge so far.

My mind had been entertaining me with looped songs the past few days, yesterday it was Sarah Bareillis’s “Brave”, but today, out of nowhere, came an old Neil Diamond song from the Jonathan Livingston Seagull album.  This is an old soundtrack from a movie, circa 1973.  The movie and the book it was based on, was a favorite of my mother’s.  If ever there was a spiritual theme that resonated with her, it was Jonathan Livingston Seagull.  So to have Neil Diamond in my head, first thing, and that particular song… well, I felt my mother’s presence so deeply that morning.  I felt she was watching over me, she was there to help me face this river.

I was the first hiker out of camp that morning, it looked like tent city right down the trail from me, but no one was stirring.  I was on the trail by 6:50 and it felt good.  The air was crisp and Neil was singing:

LONELY LOOKING SKY
Lonely looking sky
And bein’ lonely
Makes you wonder why
Lonely looking sky
Lonely looking night
Lonely night, lonely looking night
And bein’ lonely
Never made it right

Sleep we sleep
For we may dream
While we may

Dream

we dream , for we may wake
One more day

Glory looking day
Glory day, glory looking day
And all it’s glory
Told a simple way
Behold it if you may
Glory looking day

Lonely looking sky

He was right there in my head, the violins, the piano, the horns, the whole orchestra pulsing around me.  I didn’t walk far before I began to cry.  Quiet tears of joy, of love, of the sheer beauty of the world that was waking up all around me.  I watched the sun kiss the top of the canyon as I took the Ramona Falls bypass up to the Sandy River, just 2 miles away.  And I felt my mother, who had passed away 4 years ago, I felt her presence…  she used to be so scared of my wilderness trips.  But now, she wasn’t scared any more of any thing, finally at peace and lending me her strength.  Somehow, I knew I would be across by 9, just a few hours from the start of my day.  I’d be across and I’d be safe and all was as it was meant to be.

On my way to the falls, 2 crows stopped to shout “Caw!  Caw! Crrook! Crrook!”  I stopped to “Crrook !” right back at them.  I’ve always felt crows to be messengers for me.  My mother’s bird of choice has always been seagulls but that would have been something very strange indeed to see a seagull up here.  I asked the crows if they were sent to watch me,  in keeping with the magical theme of the day.

“CAW! CAW! Crrook! Crrook!”

I told them, I would take that as a yes and continued on to the falls.

Ramona Falls

I spent a little time at the falls, but mostly I walked in a blissed out state up and around until I came across 3 hikers who warned me of the crossing and jolted me right back into reality.  They talked about the logs, and how they had wanted to ford the river but it was too cold.  Startlingly cold.

I’m starting to think I am suffering from “too much information” anxiety!  But as I leave the nervous hikers behind, I slip back into listening to Neil Diamond sing and focus on the moment as it unfurls before me.  And then there is the Sandy.

The Sandy River lived up to its hype.

I inspected the narrow logs.  They did not look very supportive so I tested out a ford by sticking my poles in as far as I could.  The water was swift and deep at that spot so I began to walk upstream looking for an alternate crossing.  Last winter I read a blog by an Oregon  woman who had hiked the same trail solo. When she came to the Sandy, she walked upstream until she found a safer crossing and in messages, she advised me to do the same. Now last year, it was a very low snow pack year, so the strength of the rivers were not quite what I was seeing.  But still, sound advice.  I kept testing along the way, until finally I came to a bend in the river where a gravel bar jutted out into the stream and the water fanned out into a shallow channel and one short narrow stretch.  It was an easy stroll across the shallows and the short part was not as deep.  I found my crossing!

I unhooked my pack and loosened the straps a little so if the worst case situation arose, I could get my pack off.  I took the time to attach my phone (in a waterproof bag) and location beacon to my body and tucked it into my shirt.  Crystal had done the same thing at this point and I thought it was a very wise idea.  I left my shoes on so I’d have better traction.  The Sandy seemed to have more volume than the Muddy and the day was going to be sunny and warm.  Better to have wet feet than a broken ankle.

I stepped into the channel and noticed the water wasn’t as cold as the last hikers had thought.  Cold, yes, but teeth chattering cold?  Hardly.  One foot after another, I thought heavy thoughts and planted myself firmly with each step.  The river was swift and strong and pushed back at me, wanting to uproot and sweep away.  No time to be anxious, I was in the midst of it all and there was no where to go but across.  It was narrow at this point, so just a few steps and I was scrambling out the other side.  I made it!  Hurrah!

“WOO HOOO!”  I shouted out loud and danced in a little circle.  Another solo crossing.  I snapped a few pictures and noticed the time.  9:01

Things to do today: cross the Sandy River.   Check!!

After my celebratory dance, I filtered water from a clear stream (glacial silt streams are not good for water filters) and prepped myself for the 3 K climb to come. It would be another short mileage day, but that was how I had planned my trip.

Mileage and elevation and fitness were a consideration when I was sitting at my dining room table thinking about where I would camp and how many days I would need to hike. I then made reservations at Timberline Lodge, Jefferson Park, Obsidian Limited Entry and Crater Lake’s campground at Mazama. These dates gave me structure to what seemed to be a major undertaking. Like rocks in a creek, they served as stepping stones along my path. But, like a random creek crossing, they also wound up being too far apart or too close. It became hard to adjust as I was mid-stream. Adding in the friends who wanted to meet me, the zero days and additional hotel accommodations for such a short segment of the PCT (all of the PCT in Oregon is only about 450 miles), I wound up tying myself to a timeline that soon felt constricting. It’s hard to be in the moment and “see how you feel” when you have to meet a deadline. Sometimes I gave myself too much time, other times, not enough.

But on this day the 6 miles seemed just about perfect. Pack adjusted, I stepped on the steep trail with my wet shoes and immediately came upon a crow feather. It was soft and black and just waiting there for me as if to say, “see, you made it!”. I smiled to myself then noticed Neil had quit singing in my head. I was alone on the trail once again.

Alone, but not lonely. Loneliness is not something I usually experience, I’ve always been quite content in my solitude. Maybe it’s because I feel connected to nature, the world around me, the stillness I find within. But the handful of times I’ve experienced loneliness were always the result of being with people who wanted nothing to do with me, not necessarily in a malicious way, but more of an “insider” vs “outsider” fashion. So it’s interesting that I would experience this on my first day out and yet, not feel lonely. Just different. I don’t always notice the ways in which I feel different from others, but really, deciding to hike solo across Oregon… yeah, how different is that?

For the first time, I put in my earpiece and listened to Radio Lab podcasts as I hauled my pack up the ascent. I was climbing Mt. Hood proper now, the views below of the river canyons and glacial washes affirmed I was up on his flanks. And since I started at sea level and was going to be spending the night at above 6 thousand feet, it was pretty much a climb in my book. Not a summit, but definitely a climb.

And then there was this interesting rock on the trail.

Mt Hood is a big, beefy mountain. Called Wy’east by the natives and given a masculine gender, I felt that big, tough guy persona. He’s one impressive dude and he got my attention at all the best places. It was quite the haul up and my feet squished along in my wet shoes. They felt a little cold and good on that warm day. I had had some issues with my shoes, actually and had been taping my heels every day to ward off blisters. So far, so good but I wondered how long my luck would hold out. Blisters seem to be a normal part of trail life and something I was trying to avoid. Much to my surprise, the wet shoes actually molded to my feet as they dried and became a better fit as I went along.

Getting higher!

I remembered a day hiker I saw, she was limping down the Eagle Creek trail, a shirt tied around one foot, a running shoe on the other. She apparently lost it while exploring one of the waterfall pools. Well, that’s what happens when you play in the water, which is why I had tightened my laces before I crossed the Sandy. Miles and days from a trail head, I did NOT want to suffer the same fate. Wouldn’t that have been a bummer of a tale?

Beefy Wy’east

The wildflowers began to show themselves in abundance, a mile from my destination, a hummingbird zoomed past me after feasting on the Indian Paintbrushes. I marveled at it, as I had named my pack Hummingbird with the hopes it would be light and fly down the trail. At this point however, Hummingbird was still heavy and weighing me down.

Avalanche Lilly, no avalanche required.

The views continued to be glorious and I followed the trail from one wonderful place to the next. I met many hikers along the way.  Most everyone was friendly and feeling those high mountain vibes.  One guy had managed to hike all of Oregon in 13 days.  He was averaging 35 miles a day and looked pretty wrung out. Another was on his way south after pretty much mountaineering his way through the Washington snow.  It’s been a late season for snow.  Just as I was about to look for a camp in a level bit of topography, two hikers came down the trail. They were a couple of guys around my age and once again, the credentials were exchanged. “Two Guys” asked about water, they were running a little low, and they wanted to know about the upcoming trail. I asked if they had the Half Mile app for their phone, as it lists all places for water along the PCT. Guy #1 said they did, but he was proud that they had yet to use it on their entire trip across Oregon. They were relying entirely on maps which were buried in their packs.  And apparently on other hikers to fill them in on things like, well, where’s the water? You know, unimportant things like that.

Now, I love maps as much as the next person. Well, maybe even more as I went back to school a few years back for surveying and mapping and actually worked as an intern in my local county’s cartography department for a year. So, yeah, I get maps. And I have them and they are accessible. But I also appreciate new technology, the apps and GPS on my phone are pretty dang impressive and helpful. Especially in situations such as these.

The water was down here. Literally, right around the corner.

I gave Two Guys instructions about the upcoming trail and water. Guy #1 asked me again, the same question. I repeated my instructions. Again. He chatted on about where they had been and what they were doing… maybe just in case I had missed how important his story was? Then he asked again about water. WTH? How have these guys made it this far with this short of an attention span? I gave him the shortened version of what I had just said, twice and moved on down the trail.

“Okay, bye.  Have a good hike!” and I left before my face could contort itself into a shape that said, “Dude,  you have got a problem.” 

Wy’east getting ready for bed.

Two Guys  moved on and I slipped off the trail and down a path that led to a frequently used campsite. I moved deeper into the wilderness, still looking for that elusive solo camp before settling on a lesser used spot tucked away behind some fallen trees.

Hood over my tent.

That night, no one stopped at the communal site… it wasn’t listed on the Half Mile app, so I guess it wasn’t on the thru-hiker radar. And finally, I had my solo night. It was peaceful, beautiful in it’s solitude and the perfect end to an absolutely epic day.

On Being… A Trail Journal Part 1

This post will take a step sideways from my usual art blog format.  I’ve made some changes in my life… mostly to the way I think and process and thus, believe and behave.  I no longer feel driven to create art as a way to keep my head on straight. I still want to create and paint and feel closer to that muse than ever, it’s just that I no longer feel driven. And while I have yet to get myself back into the studio to see how all this shakes down, what I did do is return to the hiking life that used to fill my soul with an extreme form of joy in being alive.

And so… I hiked.  130 miles.  In the wilderness.  Alone.

What I hoped to find was a greater presence of peace within myself as well as more imagery to add to my series, “The Wilderness of Women”.  I did find those things, and along the way, a few more unexpected truths.

My solo journey began in late July after many months of planning and packing.  Testing gear, training, making my own vegan trail food and modifying equipment.  The trip was planned, but then, before I could even start my border to border hike across Oregon on the Pacific Crest Trail, changes were made.  Circumstances shortened my time away from home.  I compromised and rearranged the journey.  Friends got involved and stepped up to bring me resupplies… which was great, but it meant that I now had to schedule within their availability.  This had an unforeseen affect on the length of my hike, but was really just another facet of the gem that was my journey.

Sorting out my resupply.

Lets see, do I have everything?

I kept a journal and took the time to write every day; details of things that happened along the way, thoughts that came to me.  Observations and musings…  sometimes it read like a log book, other times it’s profound and poignant. I’ve whittled down the entries to include what I consider the most interesting and relevant parts.  Here it is… my trail journal, part 1:

Day 1: Eagle Creek Trail (PCT Alternate) (AKA Too Many Tourist Heaven)

Joe drops me off after a quick goodbye. Later I feel bad that I was so distracted, but I was eager to GO and focused on getting to start my hike after all this planning.  He wanted to help me so much, but I wouldn’t let him.

“No, no… I have to do this!” I exclaim when he moves my gear about.

“Fine,” he laughs and teases, “Get the hell out of my truck!”

“Okay, BYE!” And I pretend to walk off.  After 30 years of marriage, we know we don’t mean anything by this exchange. We hug and laugh but then I really am on my way.  It’s hot and mid-day and the trail is full of tourists.  Some are coming back to the parking lot, some heading out to see the waterfalls along the Eagle Creek Trail.  Some are slow, wearing flip flops. clutching purses or carrying small children.  Some are fast, unencumbered by 35 lb packs on their backs, they skim over the rocky trail and quickly climb out of sight.

As the trail snakes up the canyon, it hugs  basalt cliffs.  In places it’s so narrow and precarious, only a cable hammered into the wall keeps you from pitching into the abyss.  One woman says she was terrified and couldn’t look down.  I focus on the slick rock and hope I don’t meet anyone coming in the opposite direction.  I do, but in places where I can safely be passed.

The dangers of Eagle Creek. Don’t look down.

It’s a Saturday and the place is LOADED with people.  I didn’t bother to count, but I probably passed a 100 people by the time I got to 7 1/2 mile camp. At this point, the trail is brushy and the forest deeply shaded. I made  good time,  climbing 1500 feet by 4:30 PM, but the site is right on the trail and unappealing so I continue on.  There aren’t many places to camp, Eagle Creek is mostly a canyon and any other possible campsites are taken.  I hiked another half mile, taking my pack off twice to climb over, then under fallen trees.  I needed water to camp, I was running out, but the trail left the creek and began to climb up into the deep forest.  The thick under-story of Devils club, salal shrubs and cedar trees did not lend itself to rough camping.  I tried to find a place but it was getting darker in the canyon and I was tired.  I finally gave up and retraced my steps.  I had to climb over and under the logs again then asked a group if I could use the empty  tent space next to their camp.

They were very friendly, two University teachers and their friend, so I felt quite at home among them for my first night on the trail.  The creek was right off the camp but I had to walk through their “living room” to get to it.  They are welcoming to me, especially after I say I went to the same school and had been a teacher myself.  But later, the friend is quite interested in my journey and asks many questions … and I get very talkative, which results in the teachers getting quiet.  I feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome so I retreat to my tent, whereupon the laughter and camaraderie resume, loudly.  It confirms my party crashing vibes.

My damp home away from home.

They stay up rather late, there is bourbon involved after all.  It feels strange and I wonder if I feel lonely, but I don’t. I feel more “out of place” and knowing that, I choose to be okay with all that is happening. This is a journey of discovery and of being in the moment. This particular moment is noisy and a little annoying as they laugh and shine their headlamps on my tent. Accidental? Maybe. I do wish I had the chance to camp alone my first night, but there were so many people up and down the trail, I’d rather camp near these intellectuals than the group of flannel wearing men with furrowed eyebrows I saw just around the corner. My camp-mates may run hot and cold, but I feel safer here. And so I sleep as they party on into the night.

Day 2:  Up to Indian Springs (Brutal Climb)

I made it to Indian Springs!! It was a grueling day, I climbed about 3 thousand feet…  in 5 ½ miles. Ugh. The most gain was the last 2 miles and it took me almost 3 hours. At first, I’d count 100 steps then stop and take a breather. Then it was 50. Then 20 and finally 10. I’d plod 10 steps and stop to breathe. It was brutal, grueling, hard…. how many words can my tired mind come up with for steep and exhausting? Not many apparently.

Destination, top of the ridge. And NO this picture does not quite capture how hard this trail really is!

Long, low miles,  it was 3 PM when I stepped out of the woods and into a party. The abandoned campsite of Indian Springs had a truck, tables full of food, water, BBQ grills, lounge chairs and 7 women. One looked up at me and said, “You made it!”

“I made it!” And wondered what the hell was going on. Turns out, these 7 women, all from the same family ( sisters/aunts/in-laws) had hiked from Timberline lodge to this spot. Where they were met by an uncle/brother who drove the difficult road bringing the party trimmings, including a propane shower!

I was welcomed into the family party and plied with water, food, wine and a hot shower. I declined the last two items, (I don’t really drink… much) and the shower? Well, that’s some amazing trail magic, but it was only my second day after all! I didn’t feel deprived enough of the luxury of showers that taking one in the abandoned Indian Springs campground was worth the effort. I was holding out for a high mountain lake!

The Indian Springs party was so warm and welcoming, such a difference from how I started my day. The Eagle Creek women were rather cold to me, I barely got a good morning and it was very quiet as I packed up. One of them pointedly turned her back to me, whenever I looked over at their camp all  I’d see were backsides.  It was odd, I mean, you have to work at maintaining that position. Finally, I shouldered my pack and said “Bye, have a nice hike out!” One quiet “Bye” was all I got in return.

Well, I hoofed it out of there by 9 and had a laugh at myself for even noticing the morning cold shoulders… was my little ego wanting to take a “poor me” ride? Silly ego!  I focused on the trail and the moment and in a short time I met two very friendly thru hikers (hikers trying to go from the Mexican border all the way up to Canada). They both stopped to chat about the trail and were happy to answer my questions about the river crossings and other trail conditions. They asked where I was going and where I started and suddenly I felt like I was part of the trail hiker community. Not just a camper or a day hiker, but someone who was out to do some real mileage. Someone out to accomplish something bigger than themselves.

They  warned me that the Indian Springs trail was steep and hard.  I gulped a little inside.  If a thru hiker who’d already seen so much, including the Sierra Nevada range, said it was steep… uh, yikes!  But that was the way I had to go, so go I did.  Just at the trail junction, I came across a group of women who were cheerfully day hiking from a nearby lake.  As they went past me, I noticed one of the had a Hamsa tattoo on her leg.

And since I’d drawn a few and happened to be wearing a shirt with a Hamsa on it I called out, “Nice TAT!”  And for some reason, they came back.  They were chatty, but mostly wanted to know how to find Indian Mountain.  Then they showed me their directions for a loop hike that would take them back to their lake.  No map, just printed directions from an internet hike site.  I pulled out the map, had them take a picture of it, then pointed at the Indian Springs trail which they had just missed.

“You’ll need to go that way for 2 miles, then turn left to get back to the lake,” I told them.  They were very happy they had come back and asked for help, as they would have gone all the way to Eagle Creek before they had figured it out.  As they left up the steep trail I told them the Hamsa was a sign of protection.

“I guess it’s working!” said the tattooed girl.

I took a big swig of water then started up the trail myself.  The thru hikers did not exaggerate.  It was steep alright.  At times I had to roll myself up a step as high as my waist.  There was no way to “step up”.  My calves were screaming, so to shut them up, I’d turn around to rest, just so the incline went the other way while I paused.  After an hour and a half, I looked up my location on my phone.  I have an app that works off satellite GPS and tells you where you are on the trail.  Unbelievably, I was only half way up the trail.  I was pretty shocked and since I was hungry and tired, I sat right down on the trail and had lunch .  Food always helps.  20 minutes later I pressed on.  I met some more thru hikers, this time from England who were already disheartened by the steepness.  They were hurting, just different parts.  Everyone I met seemed to agree, downhill is worse, though it was hard to relate as up, up, up seemed to be my only experience so far.

And then, 3 hours after I saw the Hamsa tattoo, I found the spring and the end of the trail.  And the most welcome welcoming committee ever.

Best trail magic EVER! The Seven.

So tired… will write more tomorrow.  Reminder:  write about the lost hiker and her brother.  And about the 54-Days-Out-Boys.

Day 3:  The Ridge Above Bull Run Watershed

I went to bed early, but the party lasted into the night.  I was tired from my hike, they don’t call 9 PM “hiker midnight” for nothing.  Most are pretty wiped out by then.  But the “Seven” (as I began to call them) had a pretty flat hike the day before and were jazzed by the family trail magic.  They had a campfire, which generally means you are staying up late and enjoying the fun.  It would be quiet for a while, voices murmuring in the background as I drifted off to sleep, then the group would erupt with laughter, startling me awake.

OMG, What kind of trip was this going to be? So weird to start off with my second communal camp and second night of a trail party. I sincerely hoped things would quiet down once I got further down the trail.  Indian Springs ends, or begins, depending on which direction you are going, at the PCT.  Maybe getting on the Pacific Crest Trail will make a difference.

Before I wrapped things up for the evening, a hiker came up the Indian Springs trail with a frantic look on his face.  He asked us if we had seen his sister, describing her in detail.  He hadn’t seen her since 2:30 that afternoon when he stopped for water.  She, however had hiked on and rather than wait at the trail junction, had kept going.  Apparently she missed the turn off just like the Hamsa tattoo girl.  Her brother, thinking she had made the turn and wasn’t waiting for him, hiked up the Indian Spring only to come out at the top and discovered she wasn’t there.

I helped him look at a map, pointing out what she had probably done.  And suggested he go back down Indian Springs and meet her as she was most likely climbing up right now.  But he opted to drop his pack and head the opposite way in case she completed the loop and was circling around to our campground.  We told him we’d be on the look out for her and not let her leave should she arrive.

About an hour later, the sister popped out of the woods… she’d figured out she was going the wrong way and (as predicted) had backtracked and climbed up Indian Springs.  She was entreated to stay and given “Seven” hospitality.  Since she was in very good hands, I retreated to my camp where I listened to my neighbors chat about Harry Potter books for another hour.  These guys had come in right after the brother and settled into the site next to me.  They had been on the trail for 54 days and this was their last night.  Three 20 somethings, they appeared all trail hardened and looked every bit the bearded survivalists they had become.  And then they started chatting about Harry, Hermoine, Dumbledore and Snape.  It was rather adorable actually.  First thing upon awakening in the morning, they picked up where they left off… who had the greater challenges, who was the best character, what Harry would have done if Ron hadn’t…  so cute.

My camp at Indian Springs in the morning. That table came in handy.

I packed up, did some yoga stretches and said bye to the Seven.  In my first 200 feet on the PCT, I met a group of older gentlemen who also had hiked down from Timberline.  They were very interested in my “hands free” umbrella set up.  As we chatted, I found out that I was meeting the Chairman of the Board of the Pacific Crest Trail Association, John Crawford!  He gave me his card, solicited my membership and shared his trail name, StormChaser.  The other two were also on the board, apparently there had been a meeting at Timberline that year and they were using the annual meeting as a springboard for a section hike.

And just like that, I was above the trees! I believe that is Mt. Adams back there.

Around the “corner” I came across the brother and sister team (Will and Anne) who’s reunion last night was met with cheers from the Seven.  I could hear Will shout from my camp,  “Where the FUCK were you??!!” as he came back from his search. Apparently that was accompanied by leaps of joy and huge hugs all around.  We chatted a bit about how to avoid that situation in the future, and considering they were hiking SOBO (south bound) from the Canadian border to Mexico, it was a good idea they develop a strategy.

The rest of my day was rather uneventful.  I met section hikers Smudge and Toaster, two 63 year old women who were on their way to Canada.  They had started at the Oregon border and looked great.  So capable and strong.  They actually looked better than many other thru hikers I saw later, which goes to show you, wisdom and experience really do make a difference.

For you Star Wars fans: The forest of Endor? Nope, the PCT above Bull Run!

I met “In and Out” who chatted about gear with me.  Again, my hands free umbrella set up was the icebreaker.  He took a picture of it so he could make one for himself.  I probably should explain…  I have, along with many other hikers, a silver colored umbrella that works as a marvelous portable shade as well as a rain cover.  But, if you use trekking poles, like most hikers are now-a-days, you can’t hold your umbrella.  I figured out if you cut a paint roller, drill a couple of holes in it and attach it to your backpack strap, you can stuff the handle of the umbrella down the short tube and voila!  Hands free!  It was the talk of the trail as hikers asked what my roller was for…  if it wasn’t being used.  Otherwise, many were envious of my set up.  That shade saved me more than  once!

Hands free shade!!

It was nice to have relatively flat day after climbing up out of the Columbia River Gorge.  I was starting to understand why even section hikers went NOBO (northbound).  Day three was mostly ridge walking along the Portland watershed known as Bull Run.  I caught a glimpse of Mt. Hood, it was nice to see where I was going for once! I also caught glimpses of jumbo jets.  Apparently this portion of the trail was right on the flight path of PDX.  Every 10 minutes or so a big old jet would wooosh on by.  I’m sure the passengers were getting gorgeous views of Mt. Hood, but for me, it was definitely disturbing the peace of my hike.

My first glimpse of HOOD!! Hey there, big guy!

There were signs all over warning hikers to stay on trail, no camping allowed.  So I headed for a site at a trail junction.  Just as I was checking it out, a group of women came in, also looking to bed down for the night.  They graciously offered to move on, but the site I had just passed was so fly and mosquito infested I wouldn’t wish that on anyone!  So I stepped across the trail to a flat spot that wasn’t a part of the camp and let them have it.  I’d rather camp with the 4 women then an unknown mixture of who knows who.  I was literally feet from the PCT but the flat spot was far more cushier than the regular site.  It was full of fir needles and was my softest bed yet.

And better still, everyone was tired.  My friendly neighbors who had been buddies for over 25 years all tucked themselves in by dark.  Finally, a quiet camp!

A good nights rest was had by all.