As the noise of Highway 2 faded behind me, I made my way up the hill, crisscrossing ski runs and passing under numerous chairlifts as I climbed. Far below, I could see the ski lodge and highway, nestled deep in the valley. It was a familiar sight. Almost exactly one year prior, I had descended that same hill, toward the road, and toward the conclusion of the hike that had convinced me to come back out this year to hike the PCT in the first place. What began in September of 2021 in Yosemite Valley as a John Muir Trail thru-hike had been brought to a swift conclusion after only sixty miles. The wildfires were raging, and the entire California backcountry was being shut down due to some of the worst fire conditions in history. So, as I sat with strangers around a picnic table at Red’s Meadow, we decided to drive all the way to Washington, to Snoqualmie Pass, and to hike from there to Stevens Pass over eight or nine days. And that’s what we ultimately did. We may have sat around that picnic table as five strangers, heck, we even drove up to Snoqualmie Pass as five strangers, but something happened along the trail between there and the descent to Stevens Pass: We became family. Through the smoke and fog and clear blue skies, and past the bone-chilling alpine lakes, too numerous to count, we had struggled toward a common goal together. We had leaned on one another and pushed each other toward the finish line. We had shared campsites and meals and struggles together, and by the time we had reached the end at Stevens Pass, what had begun as “my” journey down in Yosemite could no longer be described in any other way but “our” journey. We had done it together and had been given a taste of community that thrives along the trail. The pull of that type of community, along with the awe-inspiring beauty of what I still believe is the most scenic section of the entire trail, planted a seed within me, and returning home, I immediately began planning to hike the PCT this year. This section of trail would be my homecoming, back to where it all began.
Near the top of the climb, I passed three hikers that I had hiked near throughout the desert and most of the Sierra. We stopped to talk briefly, but I could tell that they were ready to be done. After they continued north, I struggled to think of anyone else that I knew from earlier in the year that I hadn’t passed yet. I was just now passing through the “bubble” of NOBOs, but we had consistently stayed ahead of the pack. Most people that I was passing now had started in late April or May, much later than most people I knew. Passing through a wide valley and then up toward the next pass, the ski lifts and dirt roads of the resort slowly passed out of view, and I was surrounded, once again, by the silent beauty of the wilderness.
As I climbed, I was reminded of how rugged this section really is, arguably even more rugged than The Jungle. The difference, however, is that this section is incredibly well maintained. Still, the climbs are some of the steepest anywhere along the trail. The passes may not be as high, but the trail leads straight up and over one pass and then straight back down, only to immediately repeat the process with very little moderate terrain in between. The PCT is generally regarded as much easier terrain-wise than the AT, but I think this section could give almost any part of the AT a good run for its money in the ruggedness department. I arrived at Mig Lake early in the evening but decided to go ahead and stop. Setting up camp just a few yards from the campsite that I had claimed during the final night of our journey last year, I reminisced about that last night with the tramily. We had eaten dinner overlooking the lake, and I had dreamed of returning to hike every glorious mile of this trail. What I hadn’t realized at the time, however, was that the joy of the trail wasn’t from the number of miles hiked, but rather from the simple appreciation of life within those miles, the people that you meet and the raw experience of a simple, rewarding life. I had started the trail this year with a purist attitude: I wanted to hike every step from Mexico to Canada along a continuous footpath. I was now acutely aware, however, that my primary goal was not to thru-hike the trail, but to live as much as possible in between.
I had enjoyed most of the evening alone at my lakeside camp, with just a few others scattered along the far edge of the shoreline, but around dark, a group of NOBOs began to arrive. First four or five, then a couple more, then another larger group, followed by several loners filed in. Before long, it sounded like dozens of NOBOs were camped just outside my tent. Of course, anyone who has ever been backpacking knows that it is impossible to set up camp and eat dinner quietly, especially in a large group of friends, so for the next few hours I laid awake in my tent as dinners were made and sleeping pads were inflated. At one point, it sounded like a small group of them tried to go for a swim. From the sound of it, the water was much too cold. I didn’t know any of them personally, but I was pretty sure that I knew them by reputation. They were “The Hoard” – the largest mega-tramily on the trail this year. They had formed in Northern California, as various groups had converged in the same area, trying to avoid the wildfires. To the best of my knowledge, their core group now consisted of nearly twenty people, massive by every sense of tramily standards. Still, they made it work. They hiked together and camped together and gathered in towns together. I wondered how such a large group could ever find campsites large enough to accommodate their population, but as I emerged from my tent the next morning, I was enlightened to the art of spatial efficiency. Out of the entire group, there were only three tents. Everyone else, by my count fifteen or sixteen, was cowboy camping, lined up shoulder-to-shoulder and head-to-toe, filling the large, open, and not particularly flat area near my tent with an ocean of humanity. The incredible part was they hadn’t even utilized the entire site. Instead, they had packed into the largest area, still leaving room for several more tents over closer to the trail. I laughed to myself as I remembered our camp from last year and how the five of us, with four tents, had essentially claimed that entire area that was now home to over twenty individuals with room to spare. As I packed up and headed out, only a few of them were stirring, I guess that’s why they don’t arrive at camp until after dark. Still, I would have loved to hang out with them for a while, just to experience life with The Hoard.
Passing through the golden light of early morning, I made my way toward Trap Pass, switch-backing up the trail, steeply above Trap Lake. Far below, I could see the shapes of no less than a dozen tents along the lakeshore. Being bound by Interstate 90 at the south end and Highway 2 at the north end and being nearly the perfect length for a weeklong backpacking trip, this is one of the more popular sections of trail. Just pair that with the fact that I was now firmly lodged in the midst of the NOBO bubble, and you’ll get the idea that it was a busy day on the trail. At times, it seemed like I spent more time pulled over, letting northbound hikers pass, than I spent actually walking, and much of my time walking was spent attempting to pass others headed south. Clearing Trap Pass, I descended nearly a thousand vertical feet in less than a mile and then headed back up toward Piper Pass. Nearing the popular side trail to Glacier Lake, it seemed like I would never be able to make any consistent forward progress but soon I found myself in a wide gap between other hikers and turned on the jets.
I remembered from last year that the north side of Piper Pass is divided into two very different sections. The first section meanders gently through a dense evergreen forest, thick with moss and the gurgling sounds of the various creeks that flow among the mossy rocks and ancient tangles of fallen logs. The deep silence of the green forest, and the peacefulness of the mossy creeks reminded me of the forests of the Shire in The Lord of the Rings. As an immense contrast, the second portion of the climb emerges suddenly from the forest into a steep, treeless slope of scree and granite boulder fields, shining brilliantly in the sun and with every stone shifting underfoot. As I climbed through this section, I began to meet more and more people again. At one point, I passed a girl headed north who I am convinced was not wearing any pants. She was wearing a long shirt and the bulky hip-belt of her pack obscured everything critical, but there was a clear and apparent absence what most would consider a necessary article of clothing. Anywhere else, I would have been surprised, but when you spend enough time on the PCT, you lose the ability to be surprised by much of anything – it’s just another day on the trail.
Finally reaching the top of the pass, I descended quickly once again and then made my way, quickly, across several relatively flat miles of trail, a rarity. The sky had gradually clouded over throughout the morning and as I passed the banks of Deception Lakes, one of our campsites from last year, a light rain began to fall. Soon, the light sprinkle transitioned to a steady soaking rain, and I donned my rain jacket. A few minutes later, I passed a decent campsite down from the trail near a small pond and decided to call it a day. It was still barely past lunch time, but I had already crossed two passes and covered about a day and a half’s distance according to last year’s pace. I quickly set up camp and spent the afternoon in my tent, cooking, eating, and listening to the rain. Eventually, several others showed up and camped nearby, but the weather provided a welcome sense of isolation along this busy section of trail.
A layer of fog hung thick over the mountainside the next morning. Packing up quickly, I was on the trail less than an hour after first light. I was becoming quite fond of early starts, especially through busier sections of trail. It just feels good to cruise into camp in mid-afternoon, knowing that you have already put in a full day of walking. Plus, you don’t have to worry about campsites filling up. As I coasted down the hill, munching on breakfast as I walked, I stepped around a corner and came face to face with three young bucks, all frozen, staring at me. I crept forward cautiously, trying not to look too intimidating. The largest was barely a four-pointer, and the others only had two small stems of antler, barely discernable from their ears; young indeed. I was only about twenty yards away and still, they simply watched me, wary but unconcerned. If they had been standing beside the trail, I may have been able to pass right by them, but two were standing in the trail itself and I needed to continue walking. Taking a few steps forward, they turned and retreated up the hill about thirty yards and I continued on my way.
Soon, the forest opened up and the sound of cascading water filled the valley. Descending sharply, I entered a ravine in the mountainside and approached the chute. Now, I’m pretty sure-footed when it comes to water crossings, and I’m not afraid of the water itself as I cross. What does scare me, however, is crossing a rushing cascade along a small bundle of sticks that have been tied together with twine for many years, and with rocks placed on top of the makeshift bridge to fill the structural holes, in a place where a fall would result in tumbling several hundred feet down the rocky ravine. Last year, this had been our sketchiest water crossing, but we were able to keep an eye on one another as we made our way across. This year, however, I was alone. If I fell, it would be hours before anyone would even know something was wrong. I took a step. The sticks flexed several inches toward the raging torrent. I took another step. The entire structure began to roll. I braced against my trekking poles and kicked the makeshift bridge back into position. Another step and I was almost across. (It wasn’t a wide crossing). The sticks began to shift again. I dove toward the bank, stuck the landing and exhaled. I should have just gotten my feet wet and waded across upstream, but either way, I was safe now. With the chute behind me, I climbed up out of the ravine and continued on my way. After a few more minutes, the sound of the cascade behind me was barely an echo and I was able to zone into the sounds around me again. Down the hill, I heard a bear as it crashed through the brush. I strained my eyes to see, but the sound got further and further away, down into the valley. I hadn’t seen a single bear in over 1300 miles of trail, and I was starting to wonder if I would ever see one.
By now, the sky had cleared to a vibrant blue and Cathedral Peak stood before me, shrouded in a few wispy clouds still clinging to its uppermost heights. I remembered this section of the trail well from last year, but something was very different. Climbing higher and higher along the hillside, wide stretches of forest had been swept clear. Bushes, trees and everything else had been scraped from the earth in paths of destruction – avalanches. This past winter had seen record snowfall in the Cascades, with nearly forty feet of snow down at Snoqualmie Pass, and this section of trail was now covered with avalanche scars. Massive tangles of uprooted trees stretched from where the tree line met the scree fields all the way down into the valley. The largest was nearly a hundred yards wide and required substantial effort to climb up and over a ridge of shredded tree trunks and twisted branches, piled nearly fifteen feet high along the edge of the clearing. I crossed maybe a half-dozen such areas on the approach to Cathedral Peak before stopping to rest at the ridge.
Looking out over Deep Lake, another one of our campsites from last year, I was unaware of a chipmunk slowly making his approach. Reaching behind me for a Clif Bar, my hand brushed something furry, I jumped up. Nothing was there. I sat back down and proceeded to enjoy my snack, when I suddenly saw movement. Turning, I spotted the little rodent, perched on top of my pack and sniffing the exact place where my Clif Bar had been. I chased him off, but he immediately returned, so I decided to keep moving. For the rest of the afternoon, I passed through an area that I didn’t seem to remember from last year, and as I passed through it, I realized why it had slipped from memory. Making my way past Deep Lake and then down to Waptus Lake, the long stretch of trail proved to be one of the least memorable sections of Washington as it followed near but out of sight of the shoreline. Eventually, however, I crossed the Waptus River, filled up with five liters of water to last me until the next morning, and began the long, dry climb up to Escondido Ridge. After several miles and a couple thousand feet of climbing, I located a large campsite, completely hidden from the trail and near a rocky outcropping from which I could enjoy a broad view of Waptus Lake, deep in the forested valley. Throughout the evening, dozens of hikers passed by my campsite completely unaware, and a small family of deer spied on me, curiously, from behind the bushes.
The next morning brought clear skies, and I began the day under the impression that the good weather would last for its entirety. I was wrong. Completing the remainder of the climb up to Escondido Ridge, I could see the morning fog and a few low clouds hanging over the rocky peaks of Summit Chief Mountain and Lemah Mountain. Down on the ridge, however, the morning sun still illuminated the greens and reds and yellows of the fall grasses. Even the small lakes that I passed seemed to glow golden in the morning light. Returning my eyes to the peaks, I noticed that the highest glacier-strewn elevations were now completely obscured with greyness, and within several minutes, the fog and clouds that had originated from glacial heights descended all the way down to the trail. A fine mist began to fall, fine enough that I didn’t want to put forth the effort to put on my rain gear, but not so fine that I wasn’t quickly getting damp. Finally, I stopped and donned my rain jacket and, for the first time because of actual precipitation, my rain pants. Honestly, it came as a relief to be wearing rain pants and not being swarmed by mosquitoes. It’s interesting how you can subconsciously associate two things that would normally have no correlation. By now, cool sheets of light rain could be seen blowing across the ridge. To my north and west, the big mountains were no longer visible, and even the valley far below was partially hidden in the haze. Suddenly, I spotted a smooth rock on the right side of the trail. Strangely enough, I instantly recognized it. I could still see a faint impression upon its surface that read “H2O” with an arrow underneath. Instinctually, I headed in the direction of the arrow, away from the PCT and down a well-trodden path.
At the end of the short path, nestled at the base of a scree-covered slope that descends from the ridge, was a familiar, unnamed pond. This had been our fourth night’s camp along our journey last year. This very place was the first time I had truly realized that I wanted to hike the PCT. Not “eventually,” not “in a few years,” but I had decided here, last year, that I wanted to hike the PCT as soon as possible, “next year,” and in the days and weeks and months since I had camped along these grassy shores, “next year” had become “this year” and “this year” had brought the most incredible journey of my life. I firmly believe that even if we hadn’t camped in that specific place, any other campsite along this trail could have served just as well as the setting for my decision, but nevertheless, we had camped there, along the shore of that nameless pond, laughing and talking and sharing unsatisfying dinners that, when paired with the view and peacefulness of the water, brought no complaints. It was there that I realized that these four strangers were now essentially family. It was there that I realized the precise nature of the trail: The realization that the desire to hike day in and day out isn’t just born out of a desire to see the incredibly beautiful sights of nature (of which there are many), but it is equally born of a desire to live in community with people in a way that is becoming exceedingly rare in today’s world. As the five of us had sat around that campsite, no one was distracted by technology or schedules or the pursuit and consumption of wealth. We had been truly present, truly engaged in the art of community. More than anything else, that may be the most special thing about the trail. As I stood there, alone, deep in remembrance of a journey through the same place at a different time, I felt renewed. I had experienced that sense of true community again this year, through the desert and the Sierra, and that had motivated me for this final, solitary push.
Turning back to the trail, I noticed that the sky had cleared a bit and the rain had diminished to a faint mist. Once again, the glaciers of the distant peaks were visible through the low clouds. I descended gradually from the ridge along a series of long switchbacks that had nearly crushed my soul as I had climbed up them last year. I was glad to be headed down this time. Slowly, a burn area transitioned into forest, and I pushed on, nearly running down the gentle, never-ending grade. My raingear was still on, and I was becoming quite warm, but I was reluctant to take it off. It seemed like every five minutes or so, the sky would open back up for about thirty seconds, just enough to get everything wet again. Eventually, I reached the valley floor and followed it for some time, across several bridges and the bridgeless Lemah Creek crossing. Apparently, the substantial bridge had been washed out a number of years ago, and still hadn’t been replaced. Last year, we had forded the creek at the bridge site, but this year a detour trail had been developed downstream to a substantial log crossing. I was happy to keep my feet dry. From there, the trail began to climb, once again, through a large burn area to the west and continued up, toward Chikamin Ridge. Upon reaching the ridge, I was rewarded with stunning views of Spectacle Lake far below (our third-night’s camp from last year), and the slopes of Escondido Ridge in the distance, along with Chikamin Peak to the north, mostly obscured in fog and clouds. From there, the trail would loop westward and eventually northward, circling the base of Chikamin Peak through miles of scree fields, before looping back toward the south along the adjacent spine.
As I continued walking, I suddenly heard a noise to my left. Looking up into the trees, I didn’t immediately see anything, but I could hear the not-so-subtle movements of a large animal in one of the nearby pine trees. Straining my eyes to see, I finally spotted movement. High up, maybe fifty feet, in a tree less than twenty yards from the trail was a large black bear. As I froze to watch him, he became increasingly distressed by my presence and began making blowing noises and grunting loudly. I don’t have the most experience around bears, but in the moment, I thought it would be best to remain where I was. He obviously knew I was there, and despite being slightly aggravated, I didn’t want to add more variables to the situation by trying to move further away. I watched as he climbed down the tree, rump-first, keeping a close eye on me the entire time, and when he was about eight feet from the ground, he took a diving (and not particularly graceful) leap and hit the ground hard before turning and retreating loudly up the hillside. For the last few miles, I kept a careful eye out and considered my camping plans given the knowledge that at least one bear was in the area. Still, I decided to camp in the valley, about a half-mile past a pond and just outside the bounds of blueberry and huckleberry fields. My strategy was that any large mammals in the area would likely stay close to the pond and plentiful berries, and just far enough away from my campsite. I’m not sure if that theory turned out to be accurate or not, but nothing bothered me overnight except the vicious wind as it ripped down through the valley from the open ridgeline above.
By morning, for one of the first times on the trail, I was cold. My fingers ached as I took my tent down, and the wind bit through my jacket. As quickly as possible, I began the thousand foot climb up through the first scree field to cross over the ridge and into Chikamin Basin. As I walked, I realized that this section wouldn’t be as bad as the endless miles of loose, ankle-twisting rocks that I seemed to remember from the year before. Instead, many of the areas seemed quite stable, allowing me to just rock-hop my way up the slope, sticking to the largest, flattest rocks as I went. Cresting the ridge and turning north, I now had a sweeping view of the basin. Far across the valley I could see Joe Lake, still shrouded in morning fog. Further out and a little south, I could see the corner of Alaska Lake, deep in the morning shadows. As I continued to make my way across the rocky slopes, low clouds and fog raced over the jagged crest of Chikamin Ridge in waves and swept down into the valley in icy currents from the north. Thankfully, the trail wasn’t the constant rock-field that I remembered, and I still passed through numerous stretches of dirt or gravel treadway in between the infamous scree fields. Soon, I reached the northern end of the basin, directly below Chikamin Peak on the southern edge of Lemah Mountain, and the trail began to lead out along the south-westward spine. Looking up and out to the south, I suddenly spotted it. Directly through the canyon, and still many distant miles away, the massive landmass of Mount Rainier stood, proudly glistening in brilliant shades of gold and white in the morning sun. I immediately understood why some locals refer to it simply as “the mountain.” When you see it on the horizon, there’s no mistaking it for anything else. Its fourteen-thousand-foot height simply dwarfs every other peak and ridge in the area.
As I completed the loop around the northern edge of the basin, the trail followed close to the ridge, often passing directly across the crevices in the ridgeline, and directly through the icy wind that blew sharply through each gap from the north. Soon, however, I dropped down past Joe Lake and then climbed back up to pass above Alaska Lake. Just past Alaska Lake, I arrived at Ridge Lake and knew that I had to stop and sit for a moment. After a short second day, this had been our second campsite on last year’s hike. We had arrived here early in the day, before lunch even, but decided that it was simply too beautiful to pass up, so we spent the rest of the day lounging around the shores, listening to the yelling pikas and watching the glistening water. At one point, I had decided that it was warm enough for a swim and had (stupidly) taken it upon myself to prove that it really wasn’t that far to the opposite shore. I had made it about halfway across when I realized that it was, in fact, farther than it looked. I was on the opposite shore when I realized that the water was quite cold, and the air wasn’t near as warm as it had initially felt. Still, it wasn’t until I had made the return trip across the lake and was back on dry land that I realized just how cold I really was. I had spent the next few hours wearing every article of clothing I had and sitting in the sun on the rocky shoreline before I fully regained feeling in my extremities. It had been a few hours before I was able to stop shaking. I’ll never truly know how cold that water actually was, but that experience has made me particularly cautious when it comes to alpine lakes. I watched the morning sun on the water as I remembered the peculiar peace that I had felt as the five of us had sat silently among the rocks over a year earlier. It was a peace that I now understood quite well.
Nearby, a pika yelled at me sharply and was echoed by several neighbors all around the lake. I snapped out of my trance of reminiscence, and my mind shifted sharply to real food and a hotel room. That was what awaited me just a few more miles down the trail. This would be my first night in a real bed in eighteen days, and that fact motivated me as I pushed up and over the Kendall Katwalk (the most expensive section of the entire trail per-foot at over twenty-five million in today’s dollars for the six-hundred-foot section) at record pace. Soon, I was racing down the mountain, toward Interstate 90 in the valley far below, and passing dozens of day hikers along the way. By the time I reached the final switchbacks to the trailhead, I had passed over a hundred hikers and they just kept coming. Luckily, the trail was wide enough to where I didn’t even have to break stride as I made my way through the crowd. Soon, I had passed our first-night’s camp from last year, just a couple miles from the road, and arrived at the trailhead, where our journey had begun. In a way, it also felt like this journey had begun at this trailhead. If the five of us hadn’t decided to make the trip together, as total strangers, from Yosemite to central Washington, just to be able to hike for a few more days, I’m not sure if I would have decided to hike this year, and I’m quite certain that I wouldn’t be hiking the PCT.
Heading into Snoqualmie Pass, I stopped first in an empty gravel parking lot to dry out some of my gear in the sun and make some phone calls, before I scouted out the selection of the two convenience stores and checked into the hotel. The rest of the afternoon consisted of much-needed laundry, a glorious shower, and feasting on a magnificent twenty-one-inch pizza from next door. Over the last few weeks, as I had approached Snoqualmie Pass, people were often surprised when I told them that I planned to take a zero day there and they would try to explain that there wasn’t much there. They weren’t wrong, the entire area consists of one gas station, two convenience stores, a pizza place (in the second convenience store), and a large hotel with an attached restaurant. To me, that’s the perfect place to take a zero, everything is within walking distance, and there’s no reason to do anything except rest. For the next thirty-six hours, I did just that: rest. It’s amazing what three real meals a day and a comfy bed will do to motivate you, and early on the second morning, after breakfast of course, I was headed out, into unfamiliar territory obscured with a damp, grey mist, motivated for what I knew would be a tough, damp hundred-mile push to White Pass.
