Rattlesnakes and Bald Eagles

by Chris Townsend

  From South Mathieu Lake there was much walking on rough, brittle, cinder-like basalt lava flows as I crossed a highway at McKenzie Pass and then entered the Mount Washington Wilderness. Mount Washington is another volcanic plug Matterhorn peak, with a fine soaring spire. A long haul up the dark unstable lava of the almost barren Belknap Crater, which was like walking on a slag heap, was a tough test of my lightweight shoes and the balance of my new pack. Both, I was pleased to find out, were fine on this rugged terrain. The landscape looked like that of an inhospitable alien planet in a science-fiction film. All was brown and black twisted rock. There were barely any plants. It was easy to imagine the lava molten and flowing sinuously down the mountainside. The walking was hot and sweaty as there was no shade from the sun and the dark rocks soon became hot to the touch. From the col with Little Belknap I could see back to the Three Sisters and ahead to Mounts Washington and Jefferson. I was becoming used to seeing these high peaks rising above the forest in almost a straight line. Round them rolled undulating forested green hills. There were closer views of Mount Washington as the trail traversed its flanks before the day ended with a descent into a ghostly burned lodgepole pine forest, the stark dead trees pointing forlornly at the sky, that led to Santiam Pass, where a highway crosses the mountains, and Santiam Lodge, a combined Presbyterian Retreat and Youth Camp and American Youth Hostel, the only such one on the PCT (and now long closed). Here I stayed with Joe, a southbound PCT hiker who was hoping to at least reach the High Sierra before the first autumn snows started to block the trail. The lodge was a good place for a shower and dinner and relaxation, though I commented in my journal: ‘slept on a typical Y.H. creaky bed’. I had a supply box here along with mail that included a note from Warren asking when I thought I’d be in Stevenson, my first supply point in Washington State, as he wanted to send me a special item. I was intrigued!

  The next morning Wayne turned up with his family from Seattle, where he’d been having a short break, and offered me a lift to the nearby town of Sisters where I could add to my supplies, there being no store at Santiam Lodge. As we were leaving Mark, the PCT hiker I’d camped with at Cascade Summit a week before, turned up very thirsty and tired. He’d been without water for some time and had hoped to make it here the night before but had ended up having a waterless camp in the lava fields. The trip into Sisters was a quick one and I was back on the trail before midday, soon rounding the rocky spires of Three-Fingered Jack, another Matterhorn peak. I was especially impressed with the convoluted red strata of the north side of this ragged triple-spired mountain. Late in the day the skies clouded over as I entered the Mount Jefferson Wilderness – the wilderness areas were coming thick and fast now. I’d just pitched the tent beside Rockville Lake when Wayne turned up. Rain soon began to fall and there many loud rumbles of thunder and a gusty wind. The latter didn’t deter the mosquitoes though and I was soon driven into the tent where I lay reading and writing by candlelight. The mosquitoes had been pretty bad for a few weeks now. ‘When will they stop?’ I wrote in my journal.

  More rain and thunder woke me during the night but by dawn it was calm and the sun soon dried the tent. I left early, heading for Mount Jefferson, whose graceful cone had been slowly becoming more dominant in the view for several days. The Mount Jefferson Wilderness is popular and I met quite a few other hikers. I soon saw why as the mountain and the landscape round it is beautiful. I found it one of the most attractive areas on the whole walk and 10, 497 foot Mount Jefferson one of the finest peaks. That evening I again wrote ‘a superb day!’ in my journal. The whole day I had excellent views of Mount Jefferson and its glaciers. The guidebook warned that creek crossings could be problematic here but this late in the season they were shallow, the most notorious, fast flowing Russell Creek, no more than ankle deep. Milk Creek was true to its name, being chalky white with sediment washed down from the glaciers. I decided not to drink out of that one. The heart of the area was Jefferson Park, a lovely timberline area of meadows and tree groves on the edge of which I camped by Russell Lake with a view across the parkland to the great glacier-smeared north-west face of the mountain. This memorable day ended with a wonderful calm evening with subtle shades of pink and blue as the sun set on the snowfields across the lake. It was almost perfect. But not quite for, as I wrote in my journal, ‘the mosquitoes have been bad all day’. I was prepared to put up with them for such beauty though and I was really enjoying being at timberline again.

  As with all the mountain and timberline sections of the trail in wooded Oregon I soon left the Mount Jefferson Wilderness behind for a descent into the forest. Green would be the colour for the PCT in Oregon, it spends so much time in the trees. First though I climbed over late-lingering snow patches to a ridge that gave excellent views back to Jefferson Park and Mount Jefferson. Then there was a long descent over glacial rubble and more snow that took me out of the open country (and the Wilderness Area) and back into the forest. Down in the trees I headed for Olallie Lake where there was a resort that provided a lunch of Coca-Cola and donuts and enough candy bars and trail mix for the next few days (today the resort carries ‘hiker foods and supplies’). The lake was tranquil with a good view of Mount Jefferson. After more forest walking I again camped with Wayne, at a quiet spot called Trooper Springs.

  A forested day with just one brief view of Mount Hood followed, a day of easy walking on flat terrain mostly in the Warm Springs Indian Reservation. Away from the more scenic landscapes there were few other hikers. I thought this might mean there would be more wildlife but I only saw one deer. During the day I crossed the 45th Meridian – half way between the Equator and the North Pole. That evening Wayne arrived again as I was setting up camp by Timothy Lake, the last water for quite a while. Preparing to boil water I lit my stove only to see flames licking round the filler cap on the fuel tank. I turned the stove off and managed to smother the fire before the cap blew off, as it was designed to do to prevent the whole fuel tank exploding if the pressure grew too great. Cooking with gasoline can be exciting! I’d always been careful to point the cap away from my tent so that if it did ignite the inevitable jet of flame wouldn’t burn it down. Once the stove had cooled I replaced the cap with the new one I had bought back in Mount Shasta. I hoped this would last until the end of the walk as I probably couldn’t get another.

  I was now heading for Mount Hood, the last of the Oregon volcanoes and also the highest at 11,235 feet, and Timberline Lodge, which lay on its flanks. The day began in particularly fine forest above the Salmon River with stands of big majestic Douglas fir, western hemlock, western red cedar, Alaska cedar and more. I never tired of these huge magnificent trees, even after hundreds of miles of forest walking. Mount Hood appeared in glimpses through them. Then came an 1800 foot climb up to Timberline Lodge during which the full glory of Mount Hood was revealed.

  A curious and slightly disturbing incident occurred during this climb. As I ascended one particularly steep section I could see a hiker sitting on the ground where it eased off. As I reached him he pulled aside his jacket to reveal a pistol in a holster and started talking about how he was ready to shoot anybody who messed with him. He said this while staring into space, almost as if I wasn’t there. As soon as I got my breath back I said farewell and walked on as quickly as I could. When I looked back he was still sitting there. Much further on in the walk another incident occurred that made me think of him but that comes later.

  Timberline Lodge is a very grand stone and timber building and the centre of the Timberline Lodge Ski Resort that provides year round skiing on Mount Hood’s permanent snowfields. It was a government project, built in the 1930s by unemployed craftspeople during the Depression, and is now a designated National Historic Landmark. I had a food parcel here at the store, which was basically a gift shop without any provisions suitable for hikers, and ate a huge and tasty if expensive meal in the restaurant before having a few beers with Wayne, who turned up shortly after me and was more interested in the bar than in fo
od. We then walked off a few hundred yards to sleep under the trees. Next morning I returned to the Lodge for a hearty breakfast before setting off on another superb timberline day across Mount Hood. For ten or so miles the PCT coincided with the Timberline Trail that goes right round the mountain. The walking was fairly arduous as the trail climbed in and out of many glacial creek canyons but this was easily ignored as the detailed views of the alpine landscape of Mount Hood, replete with icefalls, cliffs, glaciers and hanging valleys, was marvellous. Mount Hood is certainly a beautiful mountain, competing with Mount Jefferson for the most attractive in Oregon in my mind. Hood was more rugged, Jefferson more graceful. I couldn’t choose between them. I really appreciated the trail here though as for once in Oregon it was actually on the mountain itself rather than below it. Skiers were out early on some of the runs near the Lodge as avalanche danger in summer meant they closed at lunchtime. There were many hikers too.

  Beyond Mount Hood I could see ahead to big bulky Mount Adams, the first Washington State volcano, and back to Mount Jefferson and the Three Sisters. Eventually the mountain was left for the forest and I descended out of the Mount Hood Wilderness to camp in an old logged area at Lolo Pass where I was soon joined by Wayne. Although in the trees there was still a view of Mount Hood towering above us but I was soon driven into the tent by the mosquitos which I could then hear humming outside the insect net door. Earlier the little biting flies that had been an occasional nuisance for the last few weeks were overactive, buzzing round me and repeatedly trying to remove chunks of flesh. There were high cirrus clouds and I wondered if a storm front was coming in and rising humidity was making the flies more active.

  Like virtually all PCT hikers then and now I was planning on leaving the PCT the next day for the far more scenic Eagle Creek Trail. This isn’t part of the PCT because it’s impassable for horses but, like Crater Lake, it’s not to be missed by hikers. The ‘official’ PCT is a gentle descent through the forest, the Eagle Creek Trail is an exciting descent down a cliff-rimmed canyon. Various volcanoes bobbed briefly in and out of view on the initial walk in the forest. Then came a stony traverse in open terrain around Indian Mountain from which I was excited to catch my first views of Mount Rainier, far away still, and Mount St. Helens from which rose a steam plume, an aftermath of the big eruption that had taken place just two years before.

  I left Indian Mountain on a very steep, jarring descent down the rough unmaintained Indian Springs Trail that led to a junction with the Eagle Creek Trail. Down this trail I went, a pleasant wooded path at first but its character changed dramatically on reaching Eagle Creek itself. Here the trail began a long traverse down the steep-sided canyon past beautiful waterfalls and deep pools. The centrepiece of this magnificent ravine is Tunnel Falls, where the East Fork of Eagle Creek drops 150 feet into the main creek. Here the narrow, exhilarating trail is blasted into the side of the vertical cliff some 75 feet above the river before passing behind the waterfall in a spray-drenched rock passageway – a superb and imaginative piece of trail building. I could have wandered up and down here for many hours. Wayne and I had arranged to meet here in the late afternoon as that’s the only time the sun shines on Tunnel Falls and we spent some time photographing each other on the narrow trail.

  Unsurprisingly the Eagle Creek Trail is very popular and camping is restricted to certain spots. Beyond Tunnel Falls we descended to Blue Ridge Camp, which at 1120 feet was the lowest on the walk so far, and slept out under the trees. For once there were no mosquitoes.

  Eagle Creek is one of the many creeks that pour down from the mountains either side into the huge Columbia River, which splits the Cascades here. Rising far to the north in the Rocky Mountains in Canada this 1,243 mile long river is the largest in the Pacific Northwest region. Between Oregon and Washington State the river runs through the Columbia River Gorge for 80 miles. In places this massive gorge is 4,000 feet deep. Waterfalls pour down the sides and it is these that gave their name to the Cascades, which were known as ‘the mountains by the cascades’ by the first western explorers. This was soon shortened to just ‘the cascades’ and the name became applied to the whole range that extends many hundreds of miles either side of the Columbia River Gorge. The actual name ‘Cascade Range’ was first used by the Scottish plant collector David Douglas who explored the area in the late 1820s and for whom the Douglas fir is named. Earlier in 1811 British-Canadian map maker and explorer David Thompson had become the first European to navigate the whole Columbia River from source to sea. The stories of both these intrepid men give an insight into what travel was like in the area traversed by the PCT before the advent of maps let alone roads or railways and without any of the backpacking equipment we take for granted. Living off the land and travelling on horseback, on foot and by canoe, often guided by local natives, without whom their journeys would have been impossible, these men were true explorers venturing into an unknown world. I wonder what they would make of the area now.

  At Blue Ridge Camp I was just eight miles from the Columbia River and the end of my traverse of Oregon. Many more waterfalls and pools lined the narrow trail as I continued the descent to the little port town of Cascade Locks on the Oregon side of the river. Here I found Wayne and his family in the Cascade Locks Marine Park with a huge and sumptuous picnic spread out on the grass. ‘It was great!’ I wrote in my journal.

  After the feast I wandered over to the park campground to pitch my tent. Here I met Jay J. Johnson, who I’d heard so much about, and a southbound hiker called Robert who told me that Larry was about a week ahead while Scott, Dave and Mark were four days away. They’d told Robert they were planning on 15 miles a day through Washington. I hoped to average more than that – I’d averaged 19 over the last two weeks – so I might yet catch up with them. Jay had met up with Susie and hiked a short way with her but said she was off the trail as she’d been hospitalised with a stomach bug, which was sad news.

  The park was on Thunder Island, just offshore of the town, and here I spent my last night in Oregon. At just 150 feet in altitude this was my lowest camp on the PCT. I’d reach the lowest point of all – 140 feet - the next day on the other side of the Columbia River. With just one State to cross I felt for the first time that the end of the walk was closer than the beginning. I knew though that the PCT had a reputation for toughness in Washington. The easy walking in Northern California and Oregon was over. It was also late August. Summer was fading away in the mountains. Soon the first snows would fall.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE NORTH CASCADES: WASHINGTON

  The Columbia River to Manning Park

  August 27 to September 24

  484 miles

  After a breakfast in Cascade Locks I finally left Oregon via the Bridge of the Gods, an impressive cantilever bridge that was built in 1926. The name comes from a Native American legend about a bridge over the river, a legend based in reality as around 1450 A.D. the river was dammed by a landslide that created a land bridge in the vicinity of Cascade Locks. The river backed up behind the dam to create a huge lake before breaking through and washing the debris away. As I walked over the modern bridge I watched ospreys flying over the river and was delighted to see these lovely graceful fish-hawks.

  Stepping off the bridge into Washington State I thought about my walk. I was in the last State and had less than 500 miles to go. For the first time I began to think I would reach Canada. Further south I’d become used to people’s astonishment on hearing I was walking to Canada. Now they were more amazed that I’d come from Mexico, which was nearly 2,000 miles away. Had I really walked that far? It didn’t seem possible.

  My first stop in Washington was at the Post Office in the town of Stevenson where I collected my food parcel and my mail, which included the surprise from Warren. This turned out to be the latest edition of the Pacific Crest Club Quarterly containing the letters I’d sent him telling the story of the walk as far as Bullfrog Lake in the High Sierra (my companions had posted the last letter from
Independence). I was startled to see my words in print and found reading them very strange. Was I still on the same journey? Today of course PCT walks are documented in online journals and social media on a regular basis and hikers are used to seeing their words and photographs appearing as they go along. Back then this was unimaginable and just seeing my account in print seemed fantastic. It also made me realise just what a long walk this was. This was my 147th day on the trail. It was 92 days since I’d been at Bullfrog Lake. The High Sierra snows felt a long time ago and the Southern California desert and mountains a lifetime away. I’d been a novice in a strange land then. Now I was an experienced and confident long distance walker. Hiking had become my way of life. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. However although I might be much closer to the finish than the start the former was still far enough away for me not to have to think too much about it yet.

  I sat in a café reading my words and my mail and then writing letters and postcards. I also bought a copy of Backpacker magazine that had a review of lightweight boots, a new category back then. One of the higher rated models was the high-topped version of my shoes. The only negative point, said the tester, was that the stitching had abraded. I had the same problem. The uppers of my shoes were a mix of synthetic and leather panels so there was a great deal of stitching, some of which was coming undone. I didn’t think I could complain though, not after the harsh volcanic rocks of the last few weeks. I’d hiked 647 miles in them too. Luckily Stevenson had a shoe repair shop and I had the seams sewn up for just $1.50. Now I hoped they’d make it to Canada. Other hikers had commented on my footwear, which was unusual back then. Most of the day and weekend hikers I met wore fairly hefty leather boots like those I’d started out in. However some other PCT hikers had also changed to lightweight boots or shoes. Jay was hiking in $25 work boots which he’d said didn’t last that long but which were cheap and comfortable. My shoes were proving comfortable but I was having problems with my socks. I’d been buying new pairs as I went along and the last two pairs had not been very good. The seams were rough to start with and once they’d been worn for a few days the synthetic material had become fairly harsh too, something washing didn’t remove, and they’d quickly developed holes. In Cascade Locks I dumped them and bought two new pairs – the seventh and eighth in total – that I hoped would be more comfortable. Learning from this experience on future walks I put wool socks in my supply boxes so I wasn’t reliant on ones I could buy along the way.