September in Washington

The rain keeps tumbling down. Some days ago I was hiking with Sneezes and Hot Mess. As we traversed the ridges of the cascade mountains through swirling fog and spattering rain, they informed me of the hiker coalition which they have formed. It is called T.H.A.W. Thru-Hikers Against Walking. A school of indoctrination which encourages hikers to walk as little as possible. i.e.- Never go off trail for water.
Never go more than 50 feet off the trail to camp.
When in town, acquire centrally located accommodations which minimize the amount of town walking, as those miles don't count.

Truly what is getting most of us through these last hundreds of miles is allowing ourselves these sardonic ruminations. Taking comfort in that we are all in the same boat. (With the amount of water running down the trail, we may as well be in boats. Inner tubes at the very least.
The terrain has again become difficult, making a 25 mile day a challenge to cover, but we do it. At this point in the game, with the aid of power bars, I can walk 4-5 hours without stopping. I do this because stopping means getting cold and even more wet. Once I start walking again, it takes at least 45 minutes to get myself thawed enough to be able to use my extremities. String cheese wrappers are the bane of my frigid fingers. Whoever is the fellow who labels things 'easy open', well, I would like to bring him up here for about a month, just to get a taste. Let him try to work buttons and buckles with numb, weak fingers. No matter how many times or how much you focus on sending the commands to your digits, they just won't work. Let that guy try to open a wrapper or packet of hot chocolate. Then, may he spend the rest of his life trying to peel shrink wrap off of CDs.
Despite the daily challenges, or perhaps in light of them, I am keenly aware of the tremendous blessings. A few days ago I caught up with my trail family. Rif-Raf, Shannon, and Frog were three faces which brought sunshine to my heart when I caught them. Other dear trail-friends as well, such as Princess, are moving in the vicinity as well. Recollections of encountering the people around me, thousands of miles ago lends a certain strength to our bond. This is made even stronger by the fact that we are all fighting our way through the same conditions. I cannot emphasize the power of community enough. Certainly without them I would not be at this point today.
Another major blessing are my blood family. The night I rolled in, LaDeana and the girls came up to see me. Having already had a full day, they loaded up into the car and drove well over an hour to bring me cheer, and love, and food. We chatted over pizza and I drank in their beautiful and brilliant faces. Listening to the girls' laughs and seeing how they are growing into such kind, polite, generous human beings. I am honored to be a member of such an astounding family.
A final source of strength for me, is you all. Knowing that you stand behind me, encouraging, hoping, supporting. I cannot begin to explain how many times my thoughts wander to those back home and around the world who are rooting for me, and at the moments when I cannot find the strength in myself to push on, well, I draw on you.
I head out under cloudy skies and banks of fog, beginning the final push. I am terrified and elated. Nervous and hopeful. Sometimes all at once. While I know I have walked 2475 miles to get to this point, I cannot wrap my mind around it as a unified concept. I know I have done it. I have been getting up and walking as far as I can every day for 5 months. It makes sense, but that does not necessarily lend any conceptual grasp. So I suppose I will just push on and make of it what I can. Wish me strength. I'm going to need it.

Friends

Last week I made my way down out of the clouds and into the town of Packwood. Once a major lumber center, the industry has all but died off and the mills all shut down about fifteen years ago. With a population standing at less than a third of what it once was, there was an almost dismal feeling to the place. I was, however thrilled to find a room at the Hotel Packwood for a great price. The owner was an incredibly kind woman who took my laundry and gave me a pair of loaner clothes so everything could get washed. I expected Andy to arrive that next morning and so went to bed by eight.
At 12:30 that night there was a knock on my door.
"House keeping," the voice called.
I stumbled to the door and cracked it slightly. There stood Andy!
The next morning he somewhat timidly reported that he had sprained his ankle some three days before, but hastened to report that it was feeling a lot better and was healing quickly. We took the rest of the day in town, buying food, going over his gear, and testing out his ankle.
The next morning we headed up to Chinook Pass. With him, Andy had brought good weather; clear blue skies and ideal temperatures blessed us. Also, the terrain was quite forgiving and the floor of peet was easy under our feet. By 5:30 we arrived in camp. We built a fire and roasted brauts and then had hot apple cider. The next day we tried a few more miles and again, all went well. We arrived at a beautiful cabin, open to back country wanderers at a spot called Government Meadow. Inside we found a five gallon bucket with all the fixings for pancakes. The next morning we built a fire. As we tried to get the wood dry enough to burn a bow hunter and his son appeared out of the trees. Aside from other hikers, these were the only other significant group of folk I have seen out here. Always moving quietly, camouflaged, and knowledgeable about the trail and thru-hikers, they were exceptionally pleasant folk to chat with. This gentleman in particular was clearly very familiar with the area. He spoke of 'patterning' the animals and was clearly a very responsible steward of the earth. I was proud to get to spend the morning chatting with he and his boy. As they prepared to leave, he gave us a few chocolate bars and snacks. Yummy.
Not having taken a trail zero day in some time, we decided to enjoy a day of lounging and to make sure Andy's ankle healed up well. A few other hikers moved through and I began to sense our community banding together, encouraging each other through these final stretches. Truly, no matter how the time has been spent, anyone who started the trail at the beginning of the summer and is still out here, has some serious gumption in them and we are all celebrating that.
The next day, the Washington weather was back and Andy pushed his first 20 mile day (over much more challenging terrain than we had yet encountered. He persevered like a champ.
The next morning we climbed again, with only 8 miles left to the pass. A few miles before we stopped at a road crossing at windy gap and a buddy from Philmont years past, Also Andy, and his wonderful lady, Leda, and their ever charismatic dog, Hobbes, rolled up and did trail magic for the afternoon. Feeding hungry hikers is no easy task! Not only are most of our road crossings rather remote, but the weather is not always ideal. Yet, here they were, all smiles and hugs. As my hiker friends moved past I began to feel so saturated with good people. Truly, my friends and family are the most wonderful people and to think of how much support and love they have given. Well, it is overwhelming to say the least.
As Leda put it, she and Also Andy kidnapped Andy and I, bringing us down to their house and feeding us some of the biggest, juiciest, most delicious burgers I have ever encountered. Today we ate an incredible breakfast scramble and they gave Andy a ride to the airport. I have been sitting at their computer for some hours now working on the posts and other business.
It is difficult to conceive but I must come to terms with the fact that I will be finishing the trail in less than two weeks at this point. I am beginning to work on some of the details of homewardness, etc. and that is actually what I am going to do right now.

The Sky is Falling

Into Washington I wandered; under the stereotypical cloud cover. A high ceiling which periodically misted or spat rain but largely just maintained a damp environment. The trees, lichens, and mosses reflected this nature. Fallen trees in varying states of decay, being reclaimed by the forest floor; coated with a frosting of thick, green moss. Fall colors appeared on the trees around me. Hues of red and orange carpeted the foliage around my feet and along the trail. By the second day the clouds had dropped and I moved through a fog. I can say that I know a very narrow swath of southern Washington. Due to private land issues the trail made its way up and then promptly back down mountain sides.

I was pushing miles to try to meet Andy up in Packwood and so, as the ground was taking longer to cover, I found myself walking late into the evenings. Where I used to be able to walk without a headlamp until about 9 pm, the shorter days made themselves felt. By 8:30 I was in total darkness. While I had always enjoyed night-hiking with my trail family, it was a very different thing when hiking alone. In particular, one night I was pushing to the top of a mountain and came across a sign labeling the area into which I was head an 'Experimental Forest', the 'Cougar Creek Branch'. Certainly an innocuous enough sign but under cover of night my mind wandered to the island of Dr. Moreau. Suddenly I couldn't move fast enough and setting up my tent was a race against fantastical creatures. The next day I came across a couple of trail angels who did trail work in the area and we were able to laugh about it.

Having been out here this long I am coming to know my own physical and mental limitations. Somewhere in southern Oregon, my will was tested to its limit. About 5 miles out of Ashland I sat down on the trail side and began to cry; nothing specifically was getting to me, it was just everything. Rif-Raf sat with me and explained that this was a challenge which we all faced at that phase in the trail. Somehow, knowing that this was not something particular to me made it more manageable. Over the next couple weeks I spoke freely of the difficulties I was dealing with and began to cast them in a light of humor. Almost every member of my trail neighborhood were in the same boat. Knowing this was something we were all facing gave me strength.

By Washington, it was my resolve being tested. After a week of moving through constant fog; having circled Mt. Adams without a single view, I began to wonder why I was doing this. Why push on through all of the wet and cold and heavy. Why, why, why. I came up with a variety of reasons and responses but the mantra which it came down to was, "because it matters to me." Because I now know this is something I can do; it is just a matter of proving it to myself.
At one point I was headed through the Goat Lakes Wilderness, a reputedly gorgeous area (of which I had seen nothing). I had been pushing long miles for a week without my trail family around and it was beginning to wear on me.

I began on an extended uphill late one afternoon and felt the full weight of it. Days of pushing through brush which had soaked all my clothes and were scratching and grabbing at my legs. Bleak weather and physical, emotional, and mental wear. I needed to know someone Up There was on my team. I called out and asked for some sign of support. Anything. I trudged on for a mile; disillusioned and alone. The second mile I was choking back tears. At the end of the third mile I came up into a pass at about 7000 feet. There, an entire herd of mountain goats waited for me. The kids cavorted, young bucks wrestled, mothers protected, and then there was Billy. He lay atop a high rock and watched the herd; eyeing me. For just a moment the clouds broke and the colors of sunset reached across the valley below me. I felt refreshed. I felt strong. I knew my way was blessed.

Butt Fingers (Fidget's dad again)

One more thing I'd like to share about our past eight days that didn't fit very well into the spirit of the other post. Trail names. As you know by now, trail names are not chosen by the hiker, rather they are conferred by other hikers. Thus Bethany's restlessness on the night before her first day on the trail earned her the name Fidget.

Some of the through hikers I had the privilege of meeting are Non-stop which refers to both his hiking and talking. Maybelline, who carries makeup at the top of her pack. Sweet Sixteen, who is really 22 but her dad hiked the first part of the trail with her and told all the guys she was just 16. Thump-Thump, the sound made by an indecisive squirrel when it gets run over. (She has a hard time making up her mind.) Micro-burst, a tiny young lady who is a bundle of energy. Interestingly enough, she, like Fidget, had gone from college to work in Montana and Alaska before coming to hike the PCT.

I felt proud to hang out with these through hikers, even the guys like Non-stop in dirty shorts with a scraggly beard. At the posh Timberline Lodge about eight through hikers held down a table or two from five in the afternoon till 11 PM. While the other guests walked about with their collars turned up and their designer outdoor clothes, the thru hikers gave a distinct air to the place and I could see some of the posh patrons leaning in to hear the stories of the trail arising from our group. Several of this group pulled me aside and told me things like, "Fidget is my favorite hiker out here, she has such a great positive attitude." And "You should be proud of your daughter, she kicks butt on the trail. We have to push to keep up with her." Whenever she would come upon a camp or a group of other through hikers, laughter was soon heard.

Let me get to my point. How I got the trail name of Butt Fingers. Prior to my arrival, she was telling a group of through hikers about a rappelling accident I had while working at Philmont back in 1980 where I rope burned my hands to the point that I needed skin grafts on six of my fingers. My coworkers back in camp were surmising where the skin for the grafts would come from and thus dubbed me with that moniker. (It was actually taken off my thigh.)

The name was a hit with the through hikers, who are a rather scatological bunch as it is. And my first night on the trail, as I was crawling into my tent, a couple passed by and after seeing I was Fidget's dad, called greetings to Butt Fingers. Fortunately they knew me well enough that when we'd reached the more refined Timberline Lodge and Rif-Raf called out to me, he had shortend my name to "Fingers."

Solitude, Hospitality and Prayer (by Fidget's dad)

It would be hard to exaggerate the significance of a father and daughter relationship. I'm blessed to have two outstanding daughters who shine like twin moons over my world.

The past eight days with Fidget, braving freezing temps, rain, snow, thousands of feet of ups and downs, as well as walking in the shadow of Mt. Jefferson, the Three Sisters, Three Fingered Jack, and Mt. Hood guided us into a new range of interactions.

When the newspaper reporter asked her what led her to take on a 2650 mile challenge she said, "When I was little my dad would take me hiking and challenge me to push a little harder and go a bit higher than I had before." That is a good description of one role I've played in her life till now. Being ahead of the kids and leading them to be and do more. Also walking beside them and congratulating them and encouraging them. In the very early hours of August 28th a seismic shift in our roles began. The first was when the taxi from Redmond/Bend Airport dropped me off in front of room 31 at the Cascade Lodge in Bend. The door was opened by a tall athletically built lady in a dress that showed sculpted, muscular legs and a lean, powerful torso.

After overcoming the surprise of how different she looked from the last time I saw her, we made plans for the AM and crashed. I'd been up working and traveling for the past 21 hours and Fidget on the other hand had upped her pace to 30 - 38 mile days over the past week to meet me in Bend.

The next morning, after breakfast and dividing the food I'd brought and giving Fidget her passport and border crossing papers for Canada we were picked up by a trail Angel, Loyd Gust. He dropped us off at Elk Lake, 172 miles from my terminus, of Cascade Locks on the Oregon/Washington Border (which is also the Columbia River). As we were saying good-bye to Loyd we realized we had forgotten to buy fuel for our stoves. Fidget still had a bit in her bottle and Loyd offered to meet us in a couple of days at a road crossing with more.

We set out needing to hike 25 miles a day to make it. It was chilly and drizzling . We occasionally glimpsed mountains in the Three Sisters Range through fog and mist. We were going over old lava fields interspersed with high mountain meadows on narrow paths which were worn by decades of horses and hikers into troughs about 6 inches deep and 12 inches wide. After being passed by a cavalcade I was distracted by watching them and fell. I heard a crackeling noise, felt a sharp pain and saw my left ankle at an unnatural angle. Fidget helped me up and after determining that nothing was broken, encourage me to keep on. This had happened to her many times especially at the start. She offered me a trekking pole which I gladly accepted. Only a little later did she ask, "Dad, do you remember what you used to call trekking poles?" Sheepishly I replied, "Wussy sticks."

The trail eventually led us into an obsidian field and down to 30 foot high Obsidian Falls. We camped near the falls with only 20 miles covered. It was good to have the soothing sound of the falls to sleep by. Although it was sometimes hard to hear over the hail and rain.

The morning of the 29th we awoke to frozen tent flaps and more mist and snow. We had to pack our tents and flys and ground cloths still heavy with moisture. As we climbed through more lava flows I realized my body wasn't used to carrying a 45 pound pack for that kind of distance up and down that kind of terrain. Fidget hiked near me, letting me lead or follow as I desired. She made sure my ankle was fine and kept the conversations on topics other than the difficulty at hand. At McKenzie pass the sun finally came out for a while and we stopped to dry our wet gear. As I was about to climb up a stone look out tower to get phone reception and call Loyd to discuss plans to get fuel, Fidget said, "Dad, look behind you." I turned and there was our guardian trail angel looking over us. Loyd was just returning from refilling a water cache in this otherwise dry area. We made plans to meet the next day and were encouraged by news he brought us of the trail ahead. Shortly after he left, trail magic happened again. A section hiker named Ben came striding down the road on his way back to his car that was parked at the nearby trail head. We were able to Yogi ("talk someone out of" as was oft done by Yogi the Bear) a bottle of fuel from him. We also were able to call Loyd and save him another trip.

After this second day of I became more accustomed to the routine and was able to speed up a bit and hike some 25 mile days as needed. I did manage to bruise and blister the balls of my feet by running downhills on rocks. This meant that for the next five days Fidget helped me deal with blisters and pain. She encouraged me. She knew what I was going through since she had faced the same thing for her first month on the trail. When I hit tough climbs or low points in a day she would keep me going by talking about family, other through hikers she'd met, stories from the past and future plans. She also seemed to effortlessly guide us through many trail intersections, reading topo maps as quickly and accurately as I would read road signs. Thus I realized that our relationship had moved onto a new plane where she was now encouraging and guiding me to go beyond what I had done before.

Each day she would weave our conversations into one with the Creator of the Douglas Firs, Cedars, Maples, huckelberries, blackberries, dozens of types of wildflowers, snakes, Jays, glaciers, peaks and waterfalls. She would talk to Him as easily as she'd talk with me. Thanking Him for family members past and present. Asking Him to care for for them and other friends. She'd also tell Him how much she was enjoying His artistry and creativity.

While there are many joyous memories I'll take from these past eight days together. There is one overarching message and meaning that gives this dad his highest joy and deepest pride. Out of her accomplishments on the trail my oldest daughter has earned a self-confidence and esteem that allows her to sing and rejoice in solitude. From this arises a spontaneous and generous hospitality toward others. And an attitude of admiration, gratitude and prayerfulness toward her creator. In the tradition of Henri Nouwen, she has developed a spirituality as solid as the mountains she climbs. Fidget, thank you for helping me complete my small section of the PCT. Keep enjoying your journey to Canada and beyond. Someday may your children and grandchildren "go together" on the Creator's paths that reveal even more of His nature.

Papa on the trail

"Those who wait on the Lord will renew their strength. They will mount up on wings like eagles, they will run and not get tired, they will walk and not grow weary." Isaiah 40:31

Through this northern third of Oregon I have been lucky enough to hike in the company of my dad. He flew in to the Bend/Redding airport. While his flight did not get in until midnight, he was ready and rearing to go by 6 am the next day. We ate a delicious 'down home' style breakfast and then went over gear. We had everything, except fuel for our stoves. We planned to pick that up on our way out to the trail head.
Not but an a minute after we had just packed everything away, Lloyd Gust pulled up. Lloyd has been trail angel-ing for the past 14 years, after over a decade of dedicating himself to section hiking the PCT. Now, when you try to thank him for his service he replies simply, "it's what I do."
We set off up the trail. For 2 days we walked through old growth forest. Branches draped with lichens, peet floor caked with moss. Fog made space as irrelevant as time. We glided through the nether space, content to share company and sense the mighty presence of wildreness around us. When walking along ridges, instead of getting views off across expanses of land, we saw white. At some points I almost wanted to jump, so sure that there was either nothing down there or space had become infinite.
Most importantly, we talked. We shared stories, we spoke prayers to the Creator. Dad told me stories from his childhood and helped me dig in to my earliest memories. He told mer about my predecessors, and we just generally rejoiced in all that was around us.
On the third day, the skies cleared wholly. Birds sang, branches dripped and we were rejuvinated. We climbed into lush meadows at the fringe of the skirts of mighty Mount Jefferson (named in 1806 by Lewis and Clark in honor of the President who had commissioned their endeavour). It truly was a magnificent view. We came upon a massive red X in tape across the trail and a notice that it had been closed due to fire. We had expected this and anticipated making up some distance. We did not know it would be directing down 6 miles of rocky, steep trail.
On this section of the adventure I began to see signs of thru-hikerness in Dad. He acquiesced that running down hill was sometimes easier than walking. A few hours later we hit the trail head and ate our lunch. As if on cue, the shuttle to take us around the re-reoute showed up. It was about 40 miles of road driving to get us around 17 miles of trail. It dropped us off near triangle lake and again we hiked under gauzy overcast skies. Sometimes sunlight filtered down and we could feel it warming us, but, looking up, you could barely see it. And so the skies ranged from snow, to hail to rain to drizzle to mist to clear sunnines. Through it all, we walked.
Then we began to climb the fringes of the skirt of Mt. Hood. The skies were gloriously clear and the climb was a little steep. Up and up to the mighty and Timberline Ski Lodge. Built by the CCC in the 1930s, the grand old stone and wood edifice is now getting a face lift courtesy of the current stimulus efforts.
The intiricacy of the work inside was amazing. Wrought iron, twisted and decorated. Heavy wood rail banisters decorated with intricate carvings of animals and pine cones. Truly the original workers took delight and pride in their work. And thruly the cooks took pride in the food they produced. It was delicious, and I'm not jsut saying that because I am constantly ravenously hungry these days. It really was good stuff. As we sat there, enjoying the company of a group of my Trail Family and Friends, Dad suggested we get a room there if one were available. I certainly had no objections!
But now I must cut my story short, as I am already 15 minutes late to head out for breakfast. I will leave the rest of the story for a guest entry to be made by Dad when he gets home.