What a difference a day made. There was no more than five inches of snow in a few patches. Trail over lava fields made sore feet, but there were no problems with snow. Lupine perfumed the warm air and bear grass gloriously waved standards guiding our way, honoring our journey with large white heads of multi-bracketed blooms.
By late afternoon we were at Big Lake Youth Camp, a Seventh Day Adventist Camp and popular trail stop for PCT hikers. In short order we were welcomed, told of a place to camp, given ice cream, sold dinner tickets, and promised showers when the campers went to campfire.
Marcus, a German thru hiker who had learned his English in Australia, stopped at Big Lake Youth Camp, too. He was a charming companion and congenial soul. He’d hiked the AT the previous year and become hooked on long trails, a strong hiker regularly making 30-mile days.
After Linda and I had a zero day and Grapevine had had three, Grapevine had recovered her energy and some optimism, bought her own GPS so she wasn’t dependent on mine, and was ready to go on with us. Yay. We went to Safeway where I bought earplugs, but not for their usual purpose. My pinched toes had made a blister, my big toe rubbing on the one next to it. I stuck an earplug between the toes. It was soft, but just substantial enough to hold my toes apart, giving the blister time to heal. It felt much better, almost instantly, my favorite blister trick.
We all celebrated my birthday one day early at a Mexican restaurant. I was happy to be able to hike at age 70 and to have friends. For a birthday present, the three of us hiked together once again. We had snow with patches of trail for four miles, but we almost always saw trail or footprints. Walking high on the slopes of Three Fingered Jack, we had lunch looking at its red rock striations, and there were many flowers.
Walking through burned areas, no shade meant no snow. Appreciating recent trail maintenance, we reached Wasco Lake for our campsite as planned. Grapevine's feet were in pain the last two miles, and she decided to bail to meet David guided by her new GPS. I was glad she’d enjoyed the day in spite of her foot pain and would have a good hiking memory and not just the miserable walk out the Obsidian Trail. We ended the evening with Holden Evening Prayer.
“A Hell of a Day” – or Three
Gray Squirrel and I started out in the morning by saying good-bye to Grapevine as she left for her two-mile walk to Jake Lake to meet David. She’d made a wise choice. The day would be taxing for Gray Squirrel and me, and we weren’t recovering from back surgery.
At Rock Pile Lake, we had mid-morning snack and topped off our water, afraid we might find the lake at our destination full of snow. We had far more snow-free trail than we had a right to expect, but when we walked on snow, it was treacherous. We had to bushwhack (off-trail walking) down and up steep slopes to avoid possible death on even more severely steep snow slopes. It was VERY HARD WORK. Yet the views were glorious. We watched Sisters, Washington, and Three Fingered Jack recede behind us and Mt. Jefferson, South, and North Cinder Peaks come near, as well as looking over lower mountains both east and west.
Gray Squirrel said, "It was a hell of a day."
At one point my knees both felt like overstretched rubber. We thought what we were doing on steep snow was nuts. But then we took turns being Tom fool leading and Jack fool following after and went on. Yes, the lake at our destination was full of snow. We found barely enough bare and level ground for the tent in front of large melting snowbanks.
In the morning, almost immediately, we hit more snow. Two things made this hike possible for me even in all the snow. My GPS and my new knee. I absolutely couldn’t have survived those strenuous snow days without the new knee, and the GPS kept us found.
Halfway through the morning we hit real trail all the way to Milk Creek. Halleluiah! Other hikers had warned us about an avalanche at Milk Creek. But after what we had already gone over, it was very anti-climactic. We camped before Russel Creek, hoping the creek level would be lower in the morning.
A moderately dangerous crossing, Russel Creek’s rapids descended a rock-walled canyon below the crossing. We took everything out of our pockets, plastic bagged our electronics, unbuckled our pack straps and held on to each other in recommended safe fording fashion. The water was mid-thigh deep with splashes up to the butt and ice cold.
It felt like wading through dry ice, colder than cold. It was a short crossing of a few steps, but by the time we reached the other side our legs and feet had passed from numb to burning, and I was worried because toes on my right foot turned dead white. After drying off and a little time, color came back.
Dry and slightly warmer, we headed up through snow to Jefferson Park, one of the jewels of the PCT. The lakes were emerging from snow, and flowers grew in the meadows, pink and white Heather, Shooting Stars and Paintbrush. From Jefferson Park, we went straight up snowfields aiming for the GPS waypoint at the top of Park Ridge. Going straight up was hard work, but less dangerous than dealing with steep snow on side hills in the woods, where the trail was supposed to be.
From Park Ridge, we had a stunning view back to Mt. Jefferson and Jefferson Park. And to the north, Mt. Hood stood out in all her glory. I was glad to see nothing but low mountains between Park Ridge and Mt. Hood and NO SNOW. At least, no snow after we plunge-stepped (walking straight down in big steps through snow) descending from Park Ridge.
After four rugged days, we were very tired. On the way down, Gray Squirrel decided to bail out with Grapevine and David when they met us at Breitenbush with our food drop. So Grapevine and David met us with sandwiches and my food drop, and all my friends left after putting up my tent for me. The trail that year wore out my two hiking friends. Although I was pretty worn out, too, I was too stubborn to stop, though I was really wishing for some snowless trail.
My wish was granted. The trail was so good I went past my planned stop and walked 16 miles, amazing for me. The highlights of the day were privies at both Breitenbush and Ollalie. It doesn't take much to make my day, just a chance to sit down to do my business twice a day. Maybe you don't appreciate how wonderful that is until you are 70.
An added bonus for the day was meeting three young, strong thru- hiker dudes who talked to an old lady on the trail. I caught up to them in the evening to camp, and we sat around and talked trail around a nice little fire until after hiker midnight.
That night, I started hatching a plan to finish the area Grapevine and I’d skipped. If I could hike this well the next couple of days, gaining a day on my schedule and giving up a planned zero day at Timberline Lodge, I might have time to finish Oregon. And I really wanted to finish Oregon.
The trail has both physical and mental requirements. Non-hikers, and some hikers, often think hiking long trails just takes a lot of strong brawn. Well, it does take a reasonable amount of physical strength, conditioning, and outdoor skills. I do not want to make light of the difficulties and challenges of long-distance hiking or the skill sets needed to safely traverse wilderness. But not just physical strength is needed.
Gray Squirrel was a much stronger hiker than I could be. But she was just out for a hike of a few days. It wasn’t important to her to finish what I’d planned. I wanted to finish Oregon. I wanted to hike the PCT and the AT. And I was stubborn enough to keep going through snow, fatigue, and sometimes, pain.
Sometimes my plans had to change to fit my physical limitations. I had to know what those limitations were, and I had to learn how to work with them. But more than brute strength, physical prowess, or gear, the deciding factor of success for me on multiple section hikes was mental strength and wanting to finish what I’d started. I wanted to hike the PCT. I wanted to hike the AT. So I did.
The next day I walked 21 miles. Thru hikers will tell you that Oregon is easy trail. Yes, it was very nice. I couldn’t remember going 20 miles in one day since I was in my 20s. If anyone wanted to shoot for long-distance miles, that was the trail for it.
Leaving the campsite with its carpet of bunchberries, I took a lovely walk in the woods, two climbs, and lots of gradual downhill. Early an
d late-season flowers bloomed together on that hot day. If you are a flower you need to bloom sometime snow-free, and that year the late-melting snow pack didn’t leave much time snow-free before winter would set in, early and late seasons compressed to one.
The following day I hiked 19 miles, nothing short of blazing speed for an old lady. I set up camp twice that night. All settled in my tent, listening to the wind, I was concerned I’d not checked for widow makers (trees likely to fall). Sure enough, there was a big tree leaning right toward my tent. I packed everything back up and headed up the trail again in the fading daylight. I may not be terribly afraid of bear, but I could envision dying under a falling tree.
Making excellent time, I arrived at Timberline Lodge on the side of Mt. Hood by 9:00 in the morning, in plenty of time to check in and make the breakfast buffet. I had to pay a cancellation fee plus my room fee since I arrived a day early. But at least they had a room available. The breakfast buffet at Timberline was legendary for hikers. I ate my fill, four extra fat slices of bacon along with eggs, potatoes, sausage, and then a Belgian waffle heaped with strawberries and blueberries, followed by watermelon and pineapple. Yum. After that I had more bacon. The remainder of the day, I rested, washed, and ate more high-priced tourist food in ample quantities.
Leaving Timberline, the trail took me around the side of Mt. Hood. At one point in the morning I missed a turn in the trail while following footprints ahead of me. They led me out on an extremely steep ridge of loose, sandy ash left from Mt. St Helen’s volcanic eruption.
I stood on shifting ash, looking precipitously down on the impressively rugged power of Big Sandy River, one wrong step or the bank giving way, and I would have been old-lady toast. I and the footsteps I was following worked our way back to the trail through thick brush, accumulating more scratches to add to the collection on my legs. That sheer drop to the river was more terrifying to me than any of the snow on the whole trip.
Ramona Falls was lovely, water splashing over rocks like white pillows in a pile. A couple friendly day-hikers promised to call Gray Squirrel to tell her I would be at Cascade Locks on Saturday. I loaded up with heavy water at Muddy River, not muddy at all, and headed up a 1,500-foot climb to end the day.
That night I slept like the dead for about five hours before hurting shoulders woke me. The pain wasn’t from carrying a pack, just arthritis combined with not moving even a hair after I fell asleep. Little sleep meant I felt tired all the next day. Stopping for lunch, I plopped down using a log for a pillow and slept for 20 minutes before I could even eat.
The last mile into Indian Springs was a traverse over an open area allowing views of steep mountains deepening into the Gorge of the Columbia. Sticking up over all the lower mountains to the north were Mt. St Helens, Mt. Adams, and Mt. Rainier—three snowcapped volcanic peaks. I felt like I was standing on the edge of the world with bright red Paintbrush as an extra garnish.
Getting my water from the spring, I fixed dinner before heading down the Indian Springs trail—steep and not very maintained, to the Eagle Creek Trail, a PCT alternate and one of the most popular trails along the Columbia Gorge.
About a mile down the trail, as I passed campsites, a man came up to the trail to bury food left by previous campers. I knew the voice. "Paul?"
"Pastor Mary?"
Paul and his daughter, Ruthie were from the church I served as pastor for 16 years, They and two of their friends were packing up to leave. What great fun to meet them.
Next was Tunnel Falls, plunging straight down 150 feet, trail cut through the rock behind the falls, green moss and lush growth everywhere. A cable was attached to the rock wall if needed for balance, but the trail was three-feet wide and not slippery. Below Tunnel Falls, Paul, Ruthie and their friends caught up with me, and we walked together.
The Eagle Creek Trail is filled with beautiful waterfalls. Doffing packs, we walked in to Lower Punch Bowl Falls, where we could see people jumping into both Upper and Lower Punch Bowls. I probably saw 75 hikers that last day on Eagle Creek.
Leaving Paul, Ruthie, and their friends at the trailhead, I took the side trail to Cascade Locks where I immediately had a burger, fries, and milkshake.
Gazing at the Columbia, and later, resting my eyes, I waited for Gray Squirrel and her partner to arrive. They drove me to their home in Vancouver, fed me a gourmet dinner, and provided shower and washing machine to make me presentable. I was three days earlier than planned and had time to hike the skipped section.
We all went to church on Sunday morning before I hopped in my car and drove south to McKenzie Pass. Parking the car, I walked into Lava Camp to spend the night. Trail angel, Lost and Found, was sitting in a large bug tent waiting to host hikers. After I set up my tent, she and I and one long-distance hiker from Ashland sat and talked trail.
On the trail at 7:00 the next morning, I made good time on mostly snow-free trail. The highlight of the day was coming into the Obsidian area, hillsides around me and trail under my feet made of obsidian sparkling in the sun as I walked on a mountain of black glass. Shining black glass, snow, and rushing water beside high tarns. Absolutely stunning. The beauty of any flowers was eclipsed by obsidian. Obsidian Falls was nice, but it, too, took second place to the sheer beauty of those shining hills of obsidian.
If Grapevine and I’d continued on that earlier day instead of bailing down the Obsidian trail, we would have been on deep snow, and I would never have seen the obsidian. I was sorry for my bad attitude walking her out to the road that day and thankful we had skipped. The day I came back was far more beautiful than the one I would have had on earlier snow.
I didn’t plan to go all the way back to the highway on the Obsidian Trail and had all my camping gear with me. But I just kept walking. Reaching the highway, all I wanted to do was get to my car. It wasn’t a well-traveled highway, but I hoped for a hitch before dark. I kept walking on very tired feet and waved my white hiking hat at a car going the wrong way. When they stopped, I offered to pay them to turn around and take me the six miles up to my car, which they did, refusing my money. I was very grateful to have arrived at my car after a long day.
I ended up driving all the way home, all night long, a 7-to-8-hour drive after an 18-hour day. I don't recommend it.
I didn't plan it. But I just couldn’t sleep until I reached my own bed. I guess if the snow doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger. I finished Oregon.
Chapter 28 September 1, 2011
AT - Southern Maine
Mahoosuc Notch
The same David, who had brought me to Gorham in 2009, picked me up there after a night and a day of travel from Washington State. From the trailhead, I started an immediate river fording on wet trail. Hurricane Irene had passed through New England the week before. I knew I was on the AT. The trail had rocks and many hikers.
Still adjusting to East Coast time zone, I went over Bald Pate Mountain, the mountain Bookworm had told me had been covered in black ice in 2009. In the beginning of September 2011, it was a granite-topped mountain with lovely views. Among at least 21 hikers I saw that day, were Knitty and Gritty, a young couple from central California, whom I would continually meet on most of the year’s AT hike.
Southern Maine was the most difficult part of the AT, followed closely by New Hampshire. After picking up a food drop at a road, my pack was very heavy going up Old Spec. Thirty-four hikers passed me. I chatted up Knitty and Gritty and Gardener, hoping for company through the Mahoosuc Notch the next day. Although the company was agreeable, I almost didn’t make it to the campsite that night. My last day in Oregon on the PCT I’d walked 18 miles in one day. But in Southern Maine I could barely make it nine, and part of that was in the dark.
After topping the Mahoosuc Arm, I had a long, very steep descent, much of it steep rock slabs down which I went very slowly. I felt akin to an orangutan, using tree branches to lower myself down rock slabs. I slipped once down two feet and scraped my shin on unyielding rock.
Mostly I climbe
d down backwards, a safer option than forwards. Then I ran out of daylight. Putting fresh batteries in the headlamp, I resigned myself to being even more slow and careful. When I filled my water bladder at the stream, I was surrounded in the dark by a huge cloud of white moths attracted to my headlamp. I strung the bladder on my belt instead of trying to stuff it in the already overfull pack and walked forward into the darkness guided by my headlamp and left almost magical, white fluttering moth wings behind.
Where was the campsite? The trail was hard to follow, on overgrown rock slabs alternating with puddles.
Finally I saw lights. Halleluiah!.
Gardener was looking up the trail to see if I was coming. I would never have found them in the dark, off the trail at the campsite, without her headlamp shining at me.
Up with the tent, down with dinner, and into bed.
The Mahoosuc Notch is known as the most difficult mile on the AT. I surely hope never to do anything more difficult. It started to rain as Gardener, Frank, and I left the campsite. Oh good, rain-slicked rocks. Fortunately, it only rained enough to slicken the rocks; it could have been much worse. The Mahoosuc Notch is a mile's worth of huge blocks of rock peeling over the eons from the steep cliffs that tower over both sides of the Notch. Into the jumble we went.
It wasn’t too bad at first, but without Gardener and Frank, I am not at all sure I could have made it all the way. Frank led, and Gardener came from behind. A few times she gave me a butt boost or let me stand on her thigh, so I could get up the side of cliff-like rocks. At least twice, we took off packs to crawl through holes or caves. At one cave-like passage, seven hikers, including Knitty, Gritty, and my group of three, had to pass packs person-to-person, which is difficult while sitting at an awkward angle under the rock roof of the cave.
When Frank found himself going headfirst down the side of a bunch of rock, I was sure he was going to come to a bad end and couldn't even watch. Although he fell, he survived with a scraped elbow. I found a different route. The Mahoosuc Notch does not exactly have trails, and hikers simply find their way through the piles of boulder blocks with an occasional white blaze.
Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76 Page 23