Chapter 14. Pacific Crest Trail (Oregon - Washington)

The snow piled deep at Crater Lake while I read books in Colorado; in June of '72 it was still over the long wands used to mark a route for snow plows. I'd have delayed starting except for the half promise of an academic job that would begin in late August.

The snow was solid enough in the morning but mushy by afternoon, with melt pools on top adequate for the worst hordes of mosquitos I've ever encountered. At Diamond Lake I bought a head net as well as more chemical repellent. That helped, but the only real blessing was cold of night to finally drive them away. Then I'd sometimes get up and dream by the fire in utter relief to be free of the pests. At the edge of Diamond Peak Wilderness I heard a train whistle, civilization at hand. The charitable lodge-keepers by Odell Lake put me up in their shed after I'd read my mail and bought supplies.

In the higher country it was difficult even to follow the trail since snow often covered the tree-blazes. I gave up trying and plunged through the stuff down the east side to follow instead less snowed-in parallel trails and dirt roads. It went well except for Mount Jefferson, which had another mountain to its east. This Broken Top had a lot of snow to get through, but after a high pass the going was easier.

East of the Three Sisters I walked on a dirt road through an Indian reservation, after fording a stream with stern "KEEP OFF" sign marking the boundary. I was apprehensive when a pickup stopped, but the Indian sheriff and his little boy were friendly after an explanation of the trespass. The Crest Trail was rejoined at Santiam Pass where my son was waiting at the church lodge. He had learned pancake-making with them; I enjoyed eating proofs of his skill.

We set out for a second summer together on the trail in snow still so deep that sometimes short alternate trails to the east were taken. With two heads we pondered ways to thwart the mighty mosquito. A tent is too heavy, clammy and confining; besides, you're not much in it except for sleeping. Garlic and vitamin B-12 we ate enough of to repel one another, but not the mosquito.

Throwing punky wood on the fire helped some but lo, I pitied the poor Indian. Double clothing, a head net, and lots of chemical repellent was the best we could do. Military surplus stuff called Jungle Juice (with seventy percent "deet") was best, then Off, Cutter's, and 6-12 a poor fourth. But the only real solution would have been to get the hell out of there. Genesis is just wrong; man does not have dominion.

By lakes, along flooded beaver ponds, up steep mountain slopes the trail led. At first our ice axes were welcome, then they became just walking sticks as we entered dry stretches of country without snow or streams. On top of one long hill we found an official-looking sign:

THIRSTY? 8 mi. <--WATER--> 8 mi.

For a moment, I understood vandalism; chopping up that sign would have given pleasure.

At Olallie Lake we rented a cabin for welcome rest. Then Mount Hood became the goal; high on it, Timberline Lodge had pleasant but expensive rooms. We splurged, enjoyed a game of pool, and sidetripped to Government Camp for supplies. Next stop would be Columbia River Gorge, bright Oregon's end.

But first came a high-level traverse of Hood, a big mountain. In particular, snow in deep Sandy Ravine seemed dangerously corniced; we gingerly crossed even higher on a glacier covered with well-consolidated spring snow. Later, Sandy River had to be forded; we waited till early morning when it was much lower. Then came a reward, Ramona Falls: jewel of the Pacific Crest Trail. Its shimmering soft green and silver loveliness seemed unreal, invented by Tolkien.

After a poor camp at crowded Wapto Lake we chose the hiker's alternate down to the Columbia, starting the long, rocky but spectacular Eagle Creek Trail. At one point this unique path is actually carved out of the cliff behind a waterfall, so that you seem to plunge into the fall like an ouzel and dip out the other side. Sore feet were an easy price to pay for that.

At the bottom in verdant Columbia Gorge, my son groaned. He was for a motel bath and rest, but I had found a lush field of ripe powder-blue raspberries. Man does not live by soap alone.

(Yes, powder-blue! Between Eagle Creek and Cascade Locks on the right side; see for yourself. Although some learned idiot has claimed that being Irish, color—blind, and drunk are related crimes.)

Next day after taking lunch in a café overlooking the Columbia, we walked over Bridge of the Gods into Washington. Resupplying at the grocery in Stevenson and taking another motel there made a short day. In the morning the motel owner offered a lift over eleven miles of pavement to trailhead. We accepted. At the time I didn't even think of the hundreds of California miles where I'd refused rides that would really have helped.

Obviously a person who walks twenty-five hundred miles is going to forgive himself an eleven-mile lift. Wrong, I came back later on a bus and hiked the eleven miles. Nor did I feel foolish doing so; there is a logic in long walks that dictates it. If months of tremendous effort are put into something, is its perfection to be thrown away for a few minutes of cushioned ease? As soon leave out a bar in a symphony.

But then I didn't realize that; we thanked him and began the trail up Dog Mountain. In the lead I got a rattler scare; it seemed at first to charge me, but perhaps was just confused because the trail bent there. I would have tried to kill this one (close to day-hiking families), but it got away too quick after the confused charge.

Dog Mountain has views of the Columbia. After that, near Lost Creek, we got lost. The logging roads seemed to go east and west; we cut across and got even more confused, finally entering another road by a ravine that had a large rock with "HI, BILL" painted on it. Which at least helped relocate my sense of humor. I've heard of an awful laurel thicket back East called Huggin's Hell where you can really get lost. But we earnestly stumbled onto our route the next day.

Streams around Mount Adams were swollen. At Midway Guard Station we spoke to Forest Service employees who had befriended Eric Ryback two years before. On a service road a ranger stopped to tell us he'd driven Eric out to get shoes repaired, and that he and his family were waiting for their postcard. The young hiker was well remembered.

We were the first through spectacular Goat Rocks that year; it wasn't really a knife edge but one ridge is very exposed, and was then made so hazardous by a rock slide that I advised rangers on the other side to close it to horses until a crew could get up for repairs.

There is a stone hut high on the south side of Goat Rocks; we nearly didn't find it on a foggy evening, along with another hiker who walked with us a few days. By the hut was a calm ptarmigan, still in winter plumage, whose grey seemed in eerie harmony with the fog and stone. The other hiker, a youngster who skied, was daring on steep snow slopes. Our moccasin-boots, good for trails, would twist in snow steps; the resulting insecurity kept us so timid we could hardly keep up with him.

We resupplied and rested at White Pass, missing the camper's lean-to just off the trail or we'd have stayed there. The 120 miles from Columbia River to White Pass is the longest stretch between stores in the northwest.

In Rainier's high country we got lost on the snow again, this time ending down in the settlement of Goose Prairie which, we learned from proud villagers, was the hometown of William O. Douglas of the Supreme Court. Alongside a road on the way out, we found wild strawberries, whose fragrance admits of no higher appeal.

In the huckleberry lands of Indian Heaven there was a sign sticking high in the air, for astronauts and basketball players, warning hikers that the berries were tribal. We meant to ignore this on the grounds that the only good Indian is a hungry one, which qualified us; but nature kept us honest. The first ripe huckleberries were found farther on, at Stampede Pass.

At Stampede's weather station we were told that McGovern had been nominated by the Democrats. It seemed a good thing, if the electorate was ready to apologize for Vietnam. Our camp at Lizard Lake was too close to the much-visited lake. Conservationists rightly urge the use of already existing campsites, but these are often poorly chosen in the first place by inexperienced campers. At a lake it seems better to take water and move up, especially in mosquito season.

On the trail, hikers talk more than citizens. Well, gossip, then. It becomes a satisfying substitute for telephone and television. You can almost tell how long a walker has been out by how eager he or she is to sit down and talk awhile. We had heard for weeks about a California group who'd been asking rangers and other hikers for news of us.

Before Snoqualmie Pass this group caught up as we noon-stopped at one of the few lean-tos on the Crest Trail. Almost like old friends we met; I boosted the fire for a pot of tea, with milk and sugar for the occasion. Names became flesh, rough trail places were laughed over as we and the two girls and three fellows had us a visit, before they walked on.

At Snoqualmie my son and I went out by bus to Seattle to spend a few days resting with friends. Back at Snoqualmie we chose the Snow Lake route instead of Red Mountain because I'd once gone up that steep devil when living in Seattle. On the other side along Snoqualmie River's Middle Fork we looked for famous Goldmeyer Hot Springs, but missed the turn-off. But we found Dutch Miller Gap, a wide pass with stunted trees and clear deep pools like an alpine Japanese garden.

There was still ice to be gotten over at Lake Ivanhoe. We were glad to have ice axes; some Crest Trail hikers don't like to carry an axe, but Washington especially seems always to have many shaded ravines with hard snow or ice left in them. Besides, an ice axe makes a good walking stick. You could even duel a bear with one, if you could strike the right stance before he died laughing.

Before Waptus Lake there was a difficult stream to cross. Then rain started in steady on the way to Stevens Pass where we found our California friends and other Crest Trail hikers denned up in a ski lodge which the manager had opened for the occasion. It was fun to be dry in good company while rain and mist obscured the pass. They asked many questions (most were hiking just part of the trail). One was did I take lifts? I answered no, but my son rightly reminded me of the short stretch along the Columbia. Some of them wrongly concluded that I didn't count east-west parts. It seemed a small matter then; my repentance was later.

A hiker who had walked all or most of the trail told of meeting a couple hiking with their nanny goats who furnished his morning coffee with the freshest of milk--just hold your cup under and squeeze. There was much hooting at this; I seemed the only believer (later others told me that there were indeed nanny goat people on the trail that year).

Stevens wasn't all fun; at a village down the west side I saw my son off on the bus back to school. One of our camps had been late, in the roofless ruins of an old cabin. We slept under a brilliant cover of stars; I woke about one to pelting rain. "Quick, boy, we're in for it; help me get this tarp up!" He woke not knowing where he was but soon recovered; we rigged the shelter in time to avoid a thorough soaking.

The deeper reasons for my long walks lay in unexplored mental caverns, but I remember two sources of satisfaction in them. One was that the walks let my son and me confront elemental forces together. The other was that, having no income, I couldn't be taxed to support the Vietnam War.

(I also recall an exceptionly clear explanation from my father. It seems first-baby was being held once, but not close enough to prevent the little one from squirming out and falling on its head. My father says if he'd held on to me tighter, I might not be walking the roads today.)

As the rain cleared on Stevens Pass, the family of hikers began to break up. I carried the other end-to-ender's pack a little way, as the Dutch freighter captain had done for me. By afternoon all were gone. In good weather we hiked in a few days to Lake Ann where it commenced to rain again. In the confusion I got to share a young lady's tent. Of course I had visions of sugarplum fairies but alas, the canvas was all we shared.

The next wilderness contains Glacier Peak, which dominates the north central Cascades. Years ago, I'd tried three times before getting up it. Now as we approached, a fever came on me to climb the monarch again. When I could resist no longer I made plans, skipping Kennedy Hot Springs to stretch out supplies. Sitkum Glacier would be the route. This is probably the easiest way up but still presents some hazard, as does any crevassed glacier.

When one of the Californians asked to come along, I said no. Nervous enough for myself heading up there without crampons (spikes attached to boots to prevent slipping), I didn't want to risk him too without another ice axe and rope. But as I left for base camp in a high saddle, I saw him following at a distance. I relented, and waited for him to catch up. There seemed no preventing him using the steps I cut; if he fell, I'd rather be near with at least some chance of helping. Maybe he'd get discouraged before the steeper parts. We had a good camp in the saddle just before the ice began.

In the morning I carefully cut steps until the grade eased. There seemed to be only small crevasses, easy enough to get over or around. Then it was just work until quite high when the slope steepened again; the Californian finally said he'd wait there. I was impressed by his courage in coming so far; I wouldn't have wanted to follow in those slippery steps without an ice axe to stop a fall.

I cut on. At one point, edging around a corner which seemed mostly sky, I had the rare experience of seeing myself do it. Usually you're too intent on getting the job done and not slipping to be aware of your action in any dramatic sense. But then, for a moment, I was and knew myself to be a travelogue hero. A few minutes later I was up, with the white world of the North Cascades spread before my conquering feet.

Now for the trickier job of getting down without getting killed. But first I found an easier way, in order to bring my companion up the last part. He'd come too far not to share in the end. And I got, for me, another rare satisfaction--a guide's pride. Then together we descended. Going down is much harder than up because you can't see as well where to put the feet, and because you're tired. But some kind spirit guarded us down the ice to meadow flowers. Haven: happy conclusion to an irresponsible escapade.

High Mica Lake still had ice as I left Glacier Peak Wilderness, hiking alone again. Some of the camps had cheeky little deer mice who scampered over your face and sleeping bag at night, and looked at you with big hurt eyes if you swatted them for the intrusion. After all, who was the intruder?

After Agnes Creek there is a dirt road with a shuttle bus (brought in by lake-boat since there's no road to the outside). For a quarter the bus took hiker and pack to Stehekin Landing on Lake Chelan, where a few supplies could be bought. I took a scenic boatride down the long lake to the town of Chelan, which has a highway to outside and more supplies.

Back on the shuttle bus to trailhead I met two tired and worn members of a hiking group who'd come up from Mexico that year, one season. Led by a scoutmaster named Bill Goddard, they'd roadwalked more than I had in southern California, because of drought, then encountered so much snow in the Sierras that an expert ice-man's help was much appreciated. It was a superb achievement, and I congratulated them.

Early September in Paysaten Wilderness I knew there was plenty of time and savored each camp as if it were the last. The possible academic job (that had me walking on deep snow in June) fell through. I didn't care. It was enough to breathe deep, and seek out hotel pines if it rained.

When a light snow fell on Holman Pass I found off the west side an unusual trapper's shack. Tiny, little bigger than the bunk and small stove therein, it was nevertheless built of logs so big they could hardly be reached around. The architectural effect was striking; it seemed a masterpiece of solidity and essential coziness.

I tried to forget the end coming but it found me anyway. A small bronze pyramid on concrete, claiming a Dominion of Canada to the north and hence a twenty-five hundred mile, eight-month hike over, was Monument 78.

A few miles into Manning Provincial Park the Nature House custodian let me sleep on its concrete porch. Rowdy dwarfs kept me awake until the splendid Northern Lights appeared, when all slept under their elfin spell. Next morning I met Goddard finishing behind his group, and invited him on to Great Slave Lake with me, but he knew better than to crown ice cream with cherries.

My idea was to continue northeast through British Columbia to Alberta, thence to the Northwest Territories along another "narrow road to the deep north": the MacKenzie Highway. Shorter than the Alaska Highway, its finishing brought truck service to the mining town of Yellowknife, reached formerly by air. It would be a vacation from hiking in that I'd accept rides when they were offered. After resting more and clearing with customs in Hope, I set off toward Wells Gray Wilderness Park.

Along the way I stayed with pot-smokers who surprised me by being rude to a waitress. My observation had been that the chief effect of the stuff was to impart an idle and aimless enthusiasm. Wells Gray itself was beautiful; serviceberries were ripe; deep brown, blue-spotted mourning cloak butterflies hovered in the mild autumn air.

But along the Peace River, farmers were worrying about an early winter. In one of the little towns I met a tall young Eskimo who regaled me with able renditions of country and western hit songs, but he wanted a drinking buddy, and that wasn't me. Does the triangle— wine, women, and song have to be equilateral?

As I carried on, one of the rides let me off at a roadside shelter where my beard was singed while lighting a fire with gasoline the driver had given. I should have asked for water; it was a long way to the river. But then I'd have missed seeing the Canada lynx that crouched by the bank in the dusk of night until it smelled me and vanished.

There were long straight dirt roads that lost the eye; on one of these a Ukrainian electrician offered a lift in his truck. When I wondered about him staring into the ditch, he explained that my accomplices would be there if I were a robber. Once he was cured of this romance, we got on well, and he retaught me a card game of his homeland, Durak (Idiot), with its memories of a Chicago friend who played.

A summer ferry takes trucks over the huge, arctic-wending MacKenzie River. When freeze comes, tons of water are pumped to strengthen the ice into an unbreakable bridge. Then and at thaw-time the road is closed to trucks for a month, when Yellowknife must again be supplied by air.

In the expensive town itself I was nearly turned away from Harmony House for transients, because I was over thirty. Not the only time I found gray a poor hair-color for gypsies! It was an interesting place; prospectors spoke with a gleam, of government grubstakes and of how to practically search for the elusive yellow. On strolls, I saw everywhere the Territorial bird—dark raven—watching with intent eyes. As I left, the cautious caretaker asked me to stay a while longer.

In the remote Northwest Territories this one came in antipodal pidgin:

Great Slave Lake itself seemed to brood, gray-green, limitless as the sea. At a junction I left an Edmonton ride to walk in the face of a snow squall toward Fort Smith, hoping to see the huge black bison of Wood Buffalo National Park, but when the squall became a storm I had to turn back.

At the junction gas station they put me up in their trailer and woke me early with the news: two girls and a fellow would take another rider to Edmonton. I sleepily loaded up, but sprang wide awake when we hit glare ice. A Canadian, an Alaskan, and a Yankee in the car—guess who got to drive them home over the ice? The cottonpicker. I paid my way that trip.

From dark winter, Canada goose and I storm-fled to sun and free water. And happily my Denver friends had not emigrated to Zanzibar.

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