As I made my way down, across the wide, grassy slopes covered in the soft greens and yellows of the first signs of fall, I examined the trail before me. This was the same path on which I had walked well over a thousand miles, from the Mexican border to South Lake Tahoe, just a couple months ago, but it felt different. The sun was in front of me, not behind me. The evergreen forests and grassy meadows felt similar to the Sierra, but the thick, soupy air reminded me that these were no high-desert mountains. Also, I could breathe easily… and I was hiking near the ridge. That alone should be enough to conclude that, while this may have been the same path in a technical sense, it was also completely different, in both circumstance and locality.
A group of hikers emerged from the tree line ahead. I could tell from their expressions and general appearance that their journey was almost over. Part of me was excited for them, eager to congratulate them on their pending accomplishment. Part of me also dreaded the exchange. I called out: “Congratulations! Y’all have almost made it!” And then came the dreaded but not unexpected response: “Yeah! Congrats! You’re done!” That was it, I couldn’t handle it anymore. Against my better judgement and as a result of my somewhat diminished self-control, I hollered out, in a not-particularly cheery voice: “I AIN’T DONE YET!” Their expressions changed to ones of surprise and inquisitiveness. I immediately felt guilty, like I, in my current irritable and discouraged state, was somehow detracting from one of their final days on the trail. Maybe I was, but at the same time, it was the truth. I wasn’t done yet. I wasn’t even halfway done.
The total length of the trail is 2653.6 miles. I had completed 1090.7 miles before I had gotten off the trail due to injury earlier in the year. It was now my fourth day back on the trail, and I still had over fifteen hundred miles to go. I was ashamed to even acknowledge it, but I was thinking about quitting already. Not here, but maybe at Snoqualmie Pass, that would be halfway through Washington. If not there, then maybe at the Washington-Oregon border. That would be slightly more respectable. This leg of my journey would be lonely. I had expected that, but I had not expected to meet up with Jackpot and his crew as they completed their continuous footpath from Mexico to Canada. I had not expected to experience the raw conclusion of a journey so long in the making. I had not expected to experience life on the trail as a member of a tramily again, but after just two days, that’s what it felt like. Jackpot, Kiko, Yogi, Socks, and Musicbox had welcomed me into their tramily, despite the fact that their journey was essentially over while I was still closer to the beginning than the end. Less than an hour prior to my outburst, they had reached the parking lot. Kiko’s wife was there to pick them up. I watched as they crammed six people, five packs, and a dog into the 4Runner and headed down the mountain, toward civilization, toward home. Their journey was over. Again and again, the phrase repeated in my head: “I ain’t done yet!” Slowly, my defeated mental state shifted back to one of resolute determination. I wasn’t done yet, but there was only one way that I would ever be able to say that I was done, and that was to keep walking.
The trip from Nashville to Seattle had been uneventful. It wouldn’t be a stretch to call it pleasant. Unlike my airport debacle back in March, I had enjoyed ample time to hurry up and wait around for my flight, before securing a window seat with an empty slot between me and the guy on the aisle. We had landed in Seattle ahead of schedule, with plenty of time to make my way from the airport to the hotel in an afternoon of peak mugginess. By the time I reached the hotel, I was a mess. Drenched in sweat and with only one wheel left (barely) on my suitcase (my plan was to leave it at the hotel anyway), I reached the hotel and took inventory of my gear to make sure nothing had escaped through the gaping hole in the bottom right corner of my suitcase where there used to be a wheel. Everything was still there. My next task was to secure a fuel canister. Given the inherently volatile nature of canisters of pressurized, liquid iso-butane fuel, they are banned by the TSA, so I would need to locate one locally. The only problem with that plan was that with the current COVID-19 supply-chain issues, there were supposedly no canisters available within a hundred miles. I found that hard to believe. Surely somebody had something. My first stop was Dicks: a swing and a miss. Next up was REI. Their website claimed zero availability, but I immediately spotted a large bucket with hundreds of small canisters. REI rarely lets me down (I promise they haven’t paid me to say that). I grabbed two and headed back to the hotel.
Unlike Seattle’s hopelessly convoluted and utterly confusing bus system, their train system is pleasantly simple and reliable. There’s one line. You can ride it north or you can ride it south. That next morning, I was headed north, toward Chinatown, where Yellowblaze Transit would pick me up to haul me east, into the mountains. As I stepped off the train and into downtown Seattle, I felt more official. Instead of dragging around a one-wheeled suitcase with a hole in the bottom, my pack gave me the appearance of a hiker rather than just another local transient. When you have an hour to kill in a classy downtown park with a regular police patrol, appearances matter. Soon, I spotted the van and headed over and before long, we were making our way through the North Cascades, toward Mazama. As we drove, I watched the seemingly endless mountain ranges stretch out before us in towering, jagged heights. This is what I would be walking through. Washington, and particularly northern Washington, is known as the toughest section of the PCT for good reason. These mountains may not be as high as the Sierra, but they are substantially more rugged.
Upon reaching the bustling metropolis of Mazama, I disembarked. From here, I would need to hitch a ride up the twenty-two mile gravel road to Harts Pass. That’s easier said than done in late afternoon when most cars are driving back down the mountain after a day of hiking. Three hours passed with no luck, so I finally decided to stay the night in Mazama. Now, when I call this place a bustling metropolis, here’s what I mean: There’s a gear store, a general store, two gas pumps, a few houses, and two small resort-style motels. Among all this, an endless stream of cars and trucks and ATVs and bikes and walkers swirl about, as this is, in fact, the largest town in the immediate area. I’m convinced that the general store gets more business than my local Walmart. After grabbing a massively overpriced sandwich for dinner, I made my way to the well-appointed albeit expensive Mazama Ranch House. At least I would get one more night in a real bed before venturing into the wilderness of the Cascades.
I was up early the next morning, but it still took nearly four hours before a car finally pulled over. As it would turn out, the man driving was the father of a lady that we had met early on the trail, around Hikertown. She was on track to arrive back at Harts Pass today, and he had driven from their home in Montana to pick her up. As we bounced up the rough, rutted road in the rental car, I enjoyed listening to his many stories of wilderness expeditions in Alaska, Canada, and the Arctic. From the sound of it, he had been just about everywhere at some point. I also related some of my experiences, but my stories of walking the trail simply didn’t compare to his hardcore expedition-style accounts. Eventually, the dog became restless in the backseat, so we turned her loose to run ahead of the car, but then struggled to keep up with her as she ran ahead. Reaching Harts Pass, we both expressed relief that the low-profile tires of the clearly not-intended-for-these-kinds-of-roads Toyota Camry rental were still seemingly intact. Gradually, it sank in. This was it. I was back on the trail.
Harts Pass is the last road that the PCT crosses as it approaches the Canadian border, which is still over thirty miles away. Before COVID, northbound hikers (NOBOs) would simply hike to the border and then cross into Canada, as the nearest road on that side of the border is only five miles away, in Manning Provincial Park. Because of COVID, however, the border has been closed to nonessential travel and hikers must return, over thirty miles, back to Harts Pass. What that meant for me was that I would begin my hike by heading north for two days, before tagging the border and turning south. I had originally planned on leaving a five-gallon bucket of food in a bear box at the pass and doing a self-resupply as I passed back through on my way south, but finding that there were no longer any bear boxes in the campground, I resigned myself to carrying nine days of food to get me north to the border and then south to Stehekin. Never mind the burning question of why I thought I would need nine days of food for 110 miles to start with, but my pack was officially heavy. Really heavy.
As I headed up the trail, I felt the chill of the foggy, damp day biting through my clothes. It was late August, but it reminded me of a gloomy November or February day in the smokies. Green valleys stretched out below me, sometimes clearly visible but at other times obscured behind a wave of fog drifting through the wind. Above the valleys and out toward the horizon was mostly hidden. Occasionally, a rocky peak would reveal itself momentarily from behind a curtain of mist but would always disappear just as quick. I passed quite a few thru hikers returning from the border and congratulated them. Among the great number of hikers that I didn’t recognize, I passed several that I had hiked with down south. Throttle and Inspector Cheese, the Dutch brothers (and some of the only foreign hikers on the trail this year), stopped to talk briefly before pressing on. We had hiked near them throughout the northern portion of the desert and the southern portion of the Sierra and had always enjoyed their multi-cultural perspectives, along with Inspector Cheese’s strong opinions regarding the quality of American dairy. Before parting ways, they informed me that Jackpot was about a day behind me. I had hoped to cross paths with him, but I also knew that he was pushing hard to the finish. I was glad to learn that I hadn’t missed him.
Even as far as I have walked, it’s difficult for me to comprehend the feeling of accomplishment upon the completion of a journey of such magnitude, and as I interacted with them, it became obvious that there are several distinct emotional states for a person in that position. Some were clearly excited to be done, racing down the trail at a brisk pace and chatting loudly and excitedly with their fellow hikers, ecstatic about what they had accomplished and full of eager anticipation for what was next. Others seemed depressed, walking alone, slowly, and avoiding eye contact. They accepted congratulations graciously, but it was evident that, whether from a sense of missing something that was not yet gone or dreading something that had not yet come to be, they did not want this journey to end. Others seemed incredibly relieved to be finished and headed back toward normal life, as if they had finished the trail out of a sense of stubbornness or determination and not necessarily enjoyment of the journey itself. Still, others walked in silent, content contemplation of the journey that was ending. After all, just as the miles pass under your feet as you walk, life continues on, through good and bad, whether you want it to or not. As we passed, many would reciprocate by congratulating me as well. Sometimes, I would explain that I still had a long way to go. Other times, I would graciously accept and keep moving. Every time, however, I was reminded that if my foot hadn’t have given out, I would have been in the same position as them. I would have been completing my journey. A slight sense of jealousy began to creep in. They were finished and I still had months to go, but at the same time, I had been given more time to enjoy the journey. By early afternoon, I was setting up camp and trying to put a dent in the weight of my food bag.
The following morning was once again cold and damp, but the sky was clear, and the sun was trying its best to penetrate the deep, dim forest. Soon, I was sweating profusely but not necessarily warm. I also quickly learned that while the climbs up here in the North Cascades aren’t near as long or as high as what I had experienced in the Sierra, it was the frequency and relative gradient of the trail that made this the toughest region. Sure, I wasn’t slogging my way up a pass at twelve thousand feet, but scrambling my way up and over the ridges of this range proved just as difficult. Soon, I passed Fluff, who we had hiked near between Tehachapi and Mammoth Lakes. He and Jackpot were the only two people that I know of that had miraculously escaped the norovirus outbreak near Lake Isabella. To this day, I’m not sure how they eluded that unpleasantness. Gradually, the trail began to break through the tree line and circle through vast meadows along the mountainside. I climbed up one pass, then descended slightly, then climbed another pass and descended again. While the passes were rocky and jagged, easily identified along the ridge from a distance, the trail seemed to hover along through the high-elevation grasslands. A few pine groves scattered the mountainside, but I enjoyed the openness of the land. At this latitude, the sun wasn’t nearly as harsh either, so I could actually appreciate the long stretches with no shade.
Eventually, the trail climbed to the ridge and stayed there, undulating along the crest of the mountain. To the west and south was a glorious view of dozens of glacier-covered peaks in North Cascades National Park. To the east, the ridges became slightly softer, more similar to the Roan Mountain area that I am familiar with, as they slowly faded toward the eastern edge of the Cascade Range. To the North, surprisingly, the mountains also became smoother, and slightly lower, with wide valleys and gradual slopes. Somewhere down in one of those valleys was the border. I stopped for a rest at Holman Lake, nestled in a deep glacial valley below the peak, and then continued. Passing the Pacific Northwest Trail (PNT) junction, I continued just a little further to Castle Pass and decided to call it a day. From there, it would be less than four miles to the border, a perfect distance for an early morning arrival. A curious deer hung around nearby as I setup camp and ate dinner, completely undisturbed. I also spotted a small creature just before camp that I had never seen before. It was black, with a long body and tail and big eyes. It seemed highly proficient at climbing trees and followed me, from tree to tree, for about a hundred yards. It reminded me of a large ferret. I’ve posted a picture of it below, if you know what this animal is called, let me know! I’m curious! Later in the evening, several other NOBOs showed up, including Coffee. I had met Coffee early on along the trail, in Julian, and had crossed paths with him throughout the desert. After dropping his pack at camp, he went ahead and hoofed it down to the border and back. His journey was now complete. We spent the rest of the evening catching up, and I learned from him that Jackpot was camping at Holman Lake tonight. That meant that I would most likely see him at the border tomorrow!
The last few miles to the border were surreal. For so long, I had dreamed about these final miles, but I had never anticipated being here under these circumstances. In the dim light of early morning, I made my way down into the valley, through the thick, damp forest. At one point I thought I heard a bear rustling through the underbrush, but the light was still too dim and the forest too dense to see anything. Calling out a few times, I didn’t hear anything else, so I kept walking. Contemplating the significance of reaching this northern terminus, it finally occurred to me, at least clearly, for the first time, that the nature of my goal to hike the PCT was different from what I had thought. For years, I had dreamed of a continuous footpath from Mexico to Canada. I thought that my goal was the end result – the completion of a thru-hike. In that moment, however, as I approached the border monument, I realized that the thru-hike was only the vessel for my true objective. Yes, it would have been incredible to be able to complete the journey in a single path, but it was precisely that, the journey, that was my actual purpose. The days in between the beginning and end are what I was truly chasing.
As I rounded the last curve of the trail, the monument came into view. I had seen so many pictures of this place through the years: the grand terminus, the monumental conclusion to a great accomplishment. There, however, in the soft, morning shadows, chilled by the morning dew, it seemed smaller and less impressive than I had pictured. I don’t want to minimize in any way the importance of that place, but at the end of the day, it’s just a clear-cut strip of land, about twenty yards wide, with a wooden monument next to a smaller, steel monument near a sign that says welcome to Canada. In the big picture of this trail, it is totally unimpressive. What makes it impressive is what people accomplish to reach this unremarkable place. The daily struggle and the great feats of mental, physical, and emotional resiliency and toughness that it takes to make this place mean something is truly special. First, I took some obligatory photos and signed the logbook, before preparing for the arrival of others. While my arrival here had signified just another day along the trail for me, this would serve as one of the most phenomenal lifetime accomplishments for those who I knew were close behind me.
Kiko was the first to reach the monument. Coming around the last turn, I could see the weariness and resolve of willpower in his eyes. I kept my distance as he reached the terminus in silence and paused for several minutes to take it all in. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. I could tell what this moment meant to him. A few minutes later, Yogi and Musicbox came around the corner. In complete contrast to Kiko’s arrival, their arrival prompted a loud and clamorous celebration. They could have easily been mistaken for the happiest guys in the world. Soon, the four of us were sitting around, sharing stories from the trail and reminiscing about all the incredible things we’d experienced. Next to arrive was Socks, and she arrived to a full-blown party in progress. Despite the fact that the sun had barely risen above the trees, the guys were already passing around a bottle of some kind of unappealing-looking concoction. Nobody was in a hurry to go anywhere anytime soon. I kept my distance, to let them celebrate among themselves, and to act as the photographer and videographer for each person’s arrival. For almost an hour, the five of us sat around in that small clearing in the middle of the woods before we finally heard Jackpot approaching.
As soon as Jackpot spotted the monument, he immediately lost it. In that moment, I understood. He and I had met as complete strangers on the bus to Campo. We had a lot in common and ended up hiking over six hundred miles together. I think it’s safe to say that those first six hundred miles were most likely the hardest thing that either one of us had ever done up to that point. The difference between us, however, was that while I had to get off the trail for two months after eleven hundred miles, he kept pushing north. Through the record-breaking heat waves of summer and the horrendous bugs of Northern California and Oregon. Through the miserable rain of Northern Oregon and Washington and the final, strenuous push through the North Cascades to the border. The toll of the two thousand miles since I had last seen him was evident. He looked exhausted, at least in body, but not in spirit. The magnitude of sacrifice that it takes to achieve a continuous 2653.6 mile footpath between Mexico and Canada was finally revealed to me. It had taken him five months to the day to go the distance, five months since we had stepped off the bus together in all our naivety and strolled up that dusty road to the southern border. For him, it had been five months of painstakingly gradual forward progress. For me, it had been three months of forward progress and two months in which progress could not be made. On that day, however, as we celebrated his, along with his crew’s completion of the PCT, I also came to realize that I had something to celebrate as well. Five months to the day after I began my journey, I now had the opportunity to finish what I had started.
We hung around at the border for nearly six hours. Other thru-hikers and section hikers came and went. At one point, a day hiker emerged from the Canadian side of the border to check out one of the trails on our side. We were sure to point out to him (all in good humor) that he was breaking more than a handful of federal and international laws by doing so. Finally, someone mentioned that we probably needed to head back south. The rest of us agreed, and after a few final pictures, we headed back up the valley. The three thousand foot climb up from the border back into the mountains was a long climb, but very gradual and barely noticeable, even for me. I stopped at Castle Pass to pack up my gear from overnight (I’d slack-packed to the border) and then continued on, past Holman Lake and back toward Rock Pass, passing many NOBOs that I recognized from down south along the way. Finally, I arrived at our planned camp, just south of Rock Pass, nestled in a grove of trees in the middle of a grassy hillside. We spent the rest of the evening and into the night enjoying what would be their last dinner on the trail and what would likely be my last evening of enjoying the company of friends. They were up early the next morning, racing back down to Harts Pass, and I was up almost as early to try to keep up. I was determined to catch up and keep up in order to see them off at the final conclusion of their hike. Eventually, with a couple miles left, I caught up with Jackpot and we shared the final miles together, just as we had shared those first miles through the Southern California desert five months prior. Reaching the upper trailhead, Kiko’s wife was waiting. I watched as the six people, five packs, and a dog wedged into that 4Runner headed down the mountain. I was on my own now, with many miles left to go. Making my way further down the mountain toward camp, I traded congratulations with an endless stream of NOBOs. It didn’t feel right to simply accept and move on, but my eventual outburst, full of frustration that I was, in fact, not even close to being done, helped me put things in perspective. There was no logical sense in being bitter that they were almost done. I still had a long way to go. That was a simple fact. I enjoyed being in the wilderness. That was another simple fact. Because of that, there was no reason for me to not appreciate every step of the journey, regardless of how far that journey would ultimately lead.
The following morning was cold and dreary, with a few flurries in the air. As others passed by, I noticed that the general demeanor was somewhat downtrodden and weary. Given the current conditions, it made sense, but I, on the other hand, was encouraged. Today was a new day, a beautiful day. The mist on the ridge and among the peaks drifted and rolled in the wind. The wide-open landscape revealed before me the vastness of this wilderness. The grassy highlands, scattered with boulders and scree fields glowed viridescent in the dim light below the reflections of glaciers. The dark, mysterious forests, in the valleys far below, stood wrapped in a shroud of silence. As the wind whistled through the rocky crags, I could almost hear the whispers of this wild land, whispers that, when you pause to listen, take a moment to hear and a lifetime to interpret. At times, I felt like the only human among this seemingly infinite wilderness. Even the smell of the wind and grass and pines seemed to exude a sense of infinite peace, a sense of balance, and a sense of immeasurable reverence for the Creator of such an incredible landscape. That afternoon, I descended from the ridges down into the deep valley and made my camp by the banks of the Methow River, out of sight of the trail. out of earshot of the steady stream of hikers headed north, and surrounded by the complete isolation of the forest.
Loneliness comes in cycles, and, as the evening deepened last night, I began to crave human interaction. I attempted to have a conversation with a nearby squirrel, but he seemed uninterested. The river, on the other hand, spouted a constant stream of stories, but never paused to listen to what I had to say. By sunrise, however, I was back to being perfectly content on my own. Winding my way through the deep, thick forest, my mind churned over the stories that I had heard over the last few days. Stories that, originally narrated by Jackpot and the others, would seem like grand exaggerations if I wasn’t already familiar with this brutal trail and the unforgiving wilderness that it passes through. Apparently, Jackpot had gotten caught in the Southern Sierra, near Mt. Whitney, in the middle of the late-season snowstorm that had caused my crew to take shelter for an extra day at Kennedy Meadows South. He had eventually bailed out to Lone Pine, only to find hundreds of other hikers in the same situation. His tales of packing a dozen or more hikers into a single hotel room made me feel better about that entirely unproductive day that we spent at Grumpy Bear’s Retreat, watching the storm clouds gather over the mountains. Apparently in the middle of that same storm, Inspector Cheese, Throttle, and Neo (recently discharged at the end of his compulsory service in the Israeli Defense Force) had decided to go ahead and summit Mt. Whitney. Ultimately, they had been successful, but they had endured white-out conditions, hurricane-force winds, and sub-zero temperatures that had resulted in lingering symptoms of frostbite in their fingers and eyes for several weeks after the storm had passed. In Northern California, Kiko had covered nearly seventy miles of trail in a single overnight push to outrun a recently ignited wildfire. As I turned these stories over and over again in my mind, I used them as motivation for the path ahead. These people that I knew had found it within themselves to muster the strength and determination to overcome tremendous challenges. If they could do it, surely I could as well.
I finally snapped out of my deep state of oblivion as I passed Yoda, a NOBO from Canada that we had hiked near down south. For one of the first times, I inquired about Sausage. I knew that he would be several days behind Jackpot, but I was struggling to predict just how many days. She replied that she hadn’t seen him in weeks and that, for all she knew, he could have been ahead of her. I hoped not. While it was feasible that he could have passed last night, while I was camped out of sight of the trail, I still wasn’t expecting to pass him for another day or two. Resuming the climb, I finally broke free of the tree line and could see the path of the trail as it circled the broad valley along the ridge and crossed a saddle before switch-backing its way up the next major climb at Cutthroat Pass. To the west, a seemingly endless expanse of glacier capped mountain ranges stretched out before me. The trail followed the crest of the ridge for several miles, with magnificent views of these northern mountains in every direction. When it comes to favorite mountain ranges, I’ll typically give the edge to the Cascades, even over the Sierra. A perfect balance between the green, forested valleys of the eastern mountains and the jagged peaks and alpine lakes of the western ranges, with the added bonus of moderate elevations at which you can keep a brisk pace without going hypoxic, this section of Washington was the most beautiful section of trail that I had experienced up to that point. As I approached the descent to Rainy Pass, I was able to spot Glacier Peak, the most isolated of the major Washingtonian Stratovolcanoes, for the first time. In a few days, on the other side of Stehekin, the trail would circle directly below its glacier-shrouded heights through what is generally considered the most rugged thirty miles of the entire trail.
Fighting my way through a constant stream of day hikers from Rainy Pass, I longed for the solitude of the forest again. Once south of State Route 20, my goal was to get just far enough from the road to be able to camp on my own, away from the prying eyes and intruding questions of those out for a walk through the woods. I had almost put enough distance between myself and the road when suddenly, around the corner walked Blue! Throughout the desert, Blue was one of those people who we saw nearly every day, and by the time we had reached the Sierra he was basically an honorary member of our crew. We rarely camped together, but we seemed to run into one another more frequently than anyone else. We talked for a while, and in the course of the conversation, I learned that Sausage was only a couple miles behind him. Soon, Blue continued north and I continued about half a mile to my campsite for the night, complete with “furniture” that had been carved out of some downed trees. About thirty minutes later, Sausage appeared from the trail, and we spent the next hour or so catching up. Since leaving South Lake Tahoe, he had primarily been hiking solo, and had been able to cross through all the major fire closures right before they were shut down. It was great to spend some time with him, but soon, he needed to press on. He had skipped Stehekin and needed to get to the road and hitch into Winthrop for his final resupply. He was so close to the end of his journey, and the thought of his accomplishment motivated me through the next few days.
I had expected the next day to be flatter, maybe even downhill, but I was wrong, and very wrong. Throughout the morning, I fought my way up and down short, steep climbs, and from one narrow valley to the next. In the hiking world, we call these “PUDs,” or “pointless ups and downs.” PUDS are most common on the AT, but it almost seemed as if the trail builders through this section had decided to import these furiously exhausting trail features from back east. To make things even more fun, much of the trail was overgrown, with big, leafy plants leaning out over the path, requiring either extra effort to push out of the way, or extra effort to kick your way through, and often both at the same time. The trail followed the western flank of a long valley for a while, before descending to the river below and crossing the river on a temporary suspension bridge. Apparently, the springtime snowmelt swells the river to the extent it has washed the permanent bridge out for several years in a row, so the North Cascades National Park has resorted to installing a concerningly rickety yet sufficiently stable bridge each summer that can then be dismantled and removed before the winter snow. Safely on the other side, I let out a sigh of relief and pressed on toward Stehekin. The trail doesn’t pass particularly close to the town, but the park service operates a bus that shuttles hikers from the trailhead, eleven miles down the gravel road into town. As I walked, I passed several more hikers that I recognized and several that I didn’t. At one point, I passed an older man who was clearly a thru-hiker, but was dressed in what I can only describe as monk robes. Interesting. A few minutes later, I heard a rumor of a mother bear and cubs ahead, but I never saw anything. Finally, I arrived at the High Bridge Trailhead and joined a small group of others waiting for the bus.
Bouncing our way down the road in a cloud of dust, we stopped first at the Stehekin Pastry Company. This was the place I had heard so much about. Even earlier in the year, down in California, there had been rumors of some incredible place up in Washington that supposedly sold the best cinnamon rolls on the trail, and maybe the best cinnamon rolls anywhere. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m really not a bakery or coffee shop kind of guy, but I’d heard too many good things to resist, and bought a sandwich for lunch and a cinnamon roll for tomorrow’s breakfast. The sandwich was pretty good, but nothing special. The cinnamon roll, however, was massive. Various accounts that I’ve heard describe them as “the size of a medium cat” and “big enough to choke a wookie,” both of which I can verify as accurate. Plus, it only set me back four bucks. Back on the bus, we continued the last couple miles into town. Now, when I call this place a town, I’m using that term rather loosely. In reality, it’s not much more than a boat dock, a single gas pump, a visitor center (closed), a small store with a pretty useless selection (at least for hikers), an overpriced but tasty restaurant, an expensive lodge, a laundry room and public shower on the ground floor of a private residence, and a small post office, also below a private residence. No roads lead to Stehekin, instead, the only way to get there is on foot, floatplane, or ferry from across Lake Chelan.
Disembarking the bus, about a dozen or so hikers, including myself, headed across to the post office. It was about ten minutes before it was scheduled to close for the day, and I considered the probability that this is probably the most business it gets all day. After collecting everyone’s name, the postmaster led us out to a storage building and opened the door to reveal hundreds of packages, all addressed to hikers. Despite the boxes being stacked to the ceiling and filling every square foot of the sizable building, it was clear that he had in place an effective organizational system. Within five minutes, everyone had their boxes. Well, everyone except me. I had shipped two boxes, but only one had arrived. Checking his system, he explained that it seemed my other box was still bouncing around the Seattle area. He encouraged me to check back tomorrow afternoon, but I was reluctant to hang around that long. Later on, as I sorted through my food at a lakeside picnic table, I concluded that I had enough food for the hundred and ten miles to Stevens Pass. I would be able to make it work. After laundry, a shower, and dinner, I made my way up the hill to the free campground, complete with picnic tables, bear boxes, and a bathhouse with running water. I felt like I was living in luxury. I proceeded to enjoy the peaceful evening overlooking the lake, until the lady who lived in the house directly below the campground arrived home, turned on a disco ball on her front porch, maxed out her stereo, and proceeded to have herself a party for no less than three hours. I guess opportunities for nightlife are limited in Stehekin.
As I headed back down into town the next morning, I stuffed my face with the massive cinnamon roll. The rumors had been right: it was definitely the best cinnamon roll I had ever eaten, both in quality and quantity. Even with my ravenous appetite, I struggled to eat the whole thing. Walking down to the post office, I slipped a note under the door that explained that I had decided to go ahead and leave town and asked the postmaster to return my box whenever it finally arrived. In any other setting, I would be hesitant to resort to such antiquated measures, but in that community, it seemed perfectly reasonable. It did seem as if the town was stuck thirty, forty, maybe even fifty years in the past. From the rural, agricultural lifestyle of most of the residents (less than a hundred), to the general sense of isolation without cell service, internet, or television, everything seemed preserved in a simpler time. Walking down the middle of the street early in the morning, I examined the vehicles parked along the road. None had been manufactured in the last fifteen years. There were Chevy and Ford pickups from the sixties, a Land Cruiser from the seventies and a multitude of Toyota and Nissan 4x4s from the eighties and nineties. Also mixed in was an International Scout and numerous K5 Blazers, Yukons, Tahoes, and Suburbans, none of which had rolled off the assembly line after the early 2000s.
A little later, as I bounced back up toward High Bridge, I peered through the dirty window at the passing homesteads. It appeared that most families produced at least the majority of their own food, milled their own lumber and likely built their homes themselves. My only conclusion was that it must either be very expensive to live in that area, perhaps an agrarian destination for wealthy families to escape the stresses of modern life, or more likely the exact opposite. Maybe that area is one of the last places where a family can truly become self-sufficient, free from the pursuit or necessitation of monetary wealth. Either way, the community of Stehekin is a true relic of a simpler time. A time when families meandered the streets with no concern for traffic, calling out to the bus driver by name as we passed. A time when a police force or any security measures against dishonesty were wholly unnecessary. A time when young children played in the field as their parents stacked hay in the barn for winter. A time when everyone’s life was not yet consumed by the ever-increasingly demanding stresses and schedules of a modern, connected life. It was a strange place, so genuinely real that it almost felt eerily artificial. I understood why so many people visit but so few decide to stay. In many ways, it was most similar to the trail: life isn’t easy, but the amount of life that is packed into every hour of every day makes it worth it for those who persevere.
