Climbing quickly, through the muggy, midmorning air of the low-elevation forest, I was quickly drenched in sweat. Dust and leaves and spiderwebs clung to my face and hands and legs as I pushed through the underbrush. Normally, I would be annoyed by a trail in this condition, but I tried hard to preserve my sanity. After all, these conditions were not unexpected. There are a few sections along the trail in which reputation, whether good or bad, precedes it by a great distance, and this was one such section. Even down in California, especially by the time we had reached the Northern Sierra, we had heard whispers of this stretch, from Stehekin to Stevens Pass. Whispers of true wilderness, perfectly preserved as if no human had ever set foot in the area. Whispers of old-growth forests, of silty, glacial rivers, and whispers of what could possibly be the most difficult thirty miles of the entire trail as it skirts around the base of Glacier Peak, the first and the most isolated of Washington’s major volcanoes. We had also heard rumors of the trail conditions, firsthand accounts, and hearsay stories about a trail that, partly due to its isolation, hadn’t been maintained in decades. Rumors of a footpath, through one of the most remote and rugged areas of the entire trail, that was so eroded, so overgrown, and so tangled with the massive blowdowns of the vast old-growth forests, that it could hardly be called a trail. In recent years, this section of trail has become known as The Jungle. As I continued to put one foot in front of the other, I began to feel optimistic. I was used to hiking the lesser-travelled and more obscure trails of the Smokies, surely it couldn’t be any worse than some of those areas.
As I climbed, the trail alternated between dim forests and glacial clearings. Now, when you hear the term “glacial clearing,” you may think of a meadow, and before hiking through a dozen such areas, I would have agreed. These natural features, however, despite the fact that they are treeless, are definitely not meadows. When I think of a meadow, I envision an open field, typically either in a valley or on a relatively flat ridge, free from trees and shrubs and covered in low grasses. The clearings that I was walking through, on the other hand, extended as a narrow strip of land from the tree line, down to the base of the valley and were tangled with an endless sea of underbrush. Making my way across the ridge, from clearing to forest and back again, I contemplated their origin. Maybe it was the result of variances in soil type across the slope from ancient glacial flows. Maybe it was the beginning stages of erosion and the formation of new tributary valleys that would eventually feed into the river below. Or maybe it was the work of avalanches that had ripped down the slopes, clearing strips of the forest into oblivion below. However these clearings had formed, I was quickly developing a love-hate relationship with them. On one hand, they gave me magnificent views of the surrounding area, but on the other hand, the absence of tree cover allowed these sections to develop into a thorny tangle of brushy overgrowth that scraped at my legs and stuck to my clothes as I passed through.
Eventually, I descended across a shallow valley and then switched back and forth, steeply, up the other side. Passing a small creek tumbling down the hill, I collected water. My planned campsite was less than a mile, just a little higher up the ridge, and apparently the creek didn’t pass near there. As I squeezed the water through my filter, a mosquito landed on my hand. Great. That was the first mosquito that I had seen in many miles. I hoped it was just the one, but it wasn’t. Between the creek and camp, I swatted a small cloud of the little winged vampires. It was nothing like the horrendous clouds that we had passed through in the Sierra, but it was still disheartening. Arriving at camp, I was disappointed by the selection of flat sites, but knowing that there probably weren’t any better options in the area, I found one that would work good enough and set up. At some point in the evening, the wind shifted and brought with it a hazy cloud of smoke from the east. From the softness of the haze and the subtleness of the odor, I could tell that this smoke had travelled a long distance, most likely from the fires of eastern Washington, out past the last eastern slopes of the Cascades. In that case, it wouldn’t cause me any problems besides restricting my view for as long as it hung around.
The next morning, I found myself looping through a broad valley under the smoky haze. A jagged ridge circled around me on three sides as I passed through an alternating patchwork of forest and brushy clearings. Eventually, however, I climbed up and out of the valley, leaving the clearings behind. For the next few hours, I descended gradually toward the Suiattle River. According to comments made by other hikers, the descent to the river was similar in grade to Oregon, and I could immediately tell that it was a much more gradual slope than most of Washington. It was also, however, a slow descent due to the large number of fallen trees. Finally reaching the river, the trail turned due west to begin the Suiattle River reroute. A result of a major storm that devastated most of the backcountry infrastructure throughout the Glacier Peak Wilderness nearly twenty years ago, the reroute leads roughly three miles down river from the old bridge site to a replacement bridge that is already showing some signs of wear. Walking along the banks of the river, it was obvious how a major storm could impact the area. The silty flow of the river filled the wide, flood-ravaged banks and eroded cliffs. In some areas, the river had carved fifty feet or more into the hillside, leaving what could only be described as a landslide waiting to happen. Crossing the new bridge, strategically built at a narrow spot in the river (only about a hundred feet wide), and with substantial banks on each side, I observed signs of floods already impacting the underlying structure of this bridge, despite its position nearly twenty feet above the water. Still, I was thankful that they had built a new bridge in the first place. Without it, this would likely be the most dangerous crossing of the entire trail.
Safely on the south side of the river, I immediately entered into a different world. I’ve hiked through old growth forest before, but I’ve never experienced such a tangibly ancient ecosystem before in my life. As I walked, massive Douglas Firs stood like sentinels along the trail and throughout the forest, unmoved and silently keeping watch for hundreds if not thousands of years. To my surprise, a vast variety of younger, smaller trees filled the forest floor among the widely spaced giants: a sign that the forest was thriving. Most old-growth forests that I had hiked through were different. Many of the most ancient pine forests of the Sierra (particularly in the Southern Sierra) were filled almost exclusively with trees that were either fully mature or dying. Here it was different, the diversity and vitality of the forest was palpable. This forest was thriving, and baring any cataclysmic event, would thrive for many years to come, as the health of the ecosystem, so seemingly untouched by the destructive human hand, was passed down through the generations. Passing an ancient giant that had finally fallen, I stood beside its roots, ripped from the ground and now standing vertically, nearly twenty-five feet high. Nearby, other trees stood strong and healthy, nearly ten feet in diameter at their base and hundreds of feet high toward the canopy. Climbing onto the trunk of the fallen tree, I walked along it for its entire length, trying to measure its original height, but lost count around three hundred feet. Arriving at camp, along the edge of the most ancient portion of the forest and on the southern bank of Suiattle River where the old bridge used to cross, I met a group of three NOBOs who were attempting to ford the river there, instead of hiking the six additional miles down to the bridge and back. You couldn’t have paid me enough money to cross the river right there, but they ultimately made it across. I guess to each his own, but I’ll spend a few extra miles in an old growth forest any day, especially if it means keeping my feet dry.
The following morning, I counted switchbacks as I climbed. On tough stretches of trail, I like to avoid checking the map for as long as I can, so that I hopefully surprise myself with how far I’ve travelled when I do ultimately take a look. I did, however, count the switchbacks on the map before I started the climb so that I could count them down as I motivated myself to the top. There was just one problem. I had counted about twenty-five switchbacks on the map, but I had counted over thirty on the trail already and I was still climbing. Soon, I had counted over forty. I finally broke and checked the map. I was still on track. By this point, I was very much not enjoying myself. The underbrush, particularly in the clearings, completely obscured the trail, scratching my face and arms as I pushed my way through. Spiderwebs clung to my forehead and legs. Underneath the underbrush, parts of the trail were rocky and eroded resulting in an endless path of trip hazards. Additionally, each individual switchback had contained a minimum of five blowdowns that required substantial effort to climb over, under, around, or through. I tripped over a rock and cursed loudly just as a pack of NOBOs stepped around the corner. Perfect. I had now counted over forty-five switchbacks. Apparently, many of them were too small to show up on the map, but in the final stages of this particular three-thousand-foot climb, they seemed to go on forever.
Finally, the forest began to open up. To the east, stood Glacier Peak in all its towering glory. Climbing a little higher, I finally reached a maze of true meadows, not the brushy clearings that had become so common. To the north, dark green valleys stretched away into the mountains. Climbing even higher, the horizon opened up to the west to show the endless ranges of rocky, snowy peaks, crowned with layers of drifting clouds. It seemed as if the glacier-covered peaks were generating their own miniature weather systems. Even Glacier Peak itself, now almost directly overhead to the southeast, was partially obscured at its highest elevations by an ever-circulating plume of cumulus clouds. Walking among the soft grasses now, I spotted a Marmot as it eyed me suspiciously, and entertained myself by chasing a covey of grouse as they ran down the trail in front of me, stubbornly reluctant to take flight. After looping through a particularly stunning alpine valley, I spotted an old steel stretcher beside the trail. It looked like it had been abandoned for decades, and I could only think of a couple reasons why it would have been left up there, none of them good, so I kept moving.
The rest of the afternoon was filled with a lengthy descent down to the aptly named Milk Creek, after which, the climb back up out of the valley was irritatingly similar to the first climb of the day, just more overgrown trail, blowdowns, and switchbacks. That climb, however, didn’t seem as long, and soon I was standing on the shores of Mica Lake. Framed by the rocky slopes of Glacier Peak, intermixed with flakes of mica that glistened in the evening sun, along with a backdrop of glacial-carved terrain leading back to distant ranges capped in white, I was surrounded by one of the most incredible views that I have ever witnessed. I emphasize that I was surrounded by this view, simply because it is quite common to have a spectacular view in one direction or another. It is, however, a truly rare occasion to be able to look out in all directions to such a sight. Even as I enjoyed dinner overlooking the clear, blue water of the lake, I couldn’t help but turn around every few minutes to watch the shifting clouds and racing shadows over the North Cascades skyline.
The rising sun illuminated a white, frothy ocean of clouds that filled the labyrinth of valleys far below. Gradually, however, as the sun rose above the horizon, the clouds began to gain altitude as well. There was still clear blue sky overhead as I turned my back to the glistening mica-infused veins above the still shadowy Mica Lake, but the foggy reaches of the highest clouds were quickly approaching. Almost running up the trail toward the pass, I was determined to outrun the damp veil that was quickly approaching. Crossing through boulder-strewn fields, wet from the morning dew and the last of the seasonal snow melt, I made the final push up to the pass just as the clouds reached the final slope. For a moment I was quite pleased with myself, that I had successfully outrun the rising tide, but I soon crossed the alpine meadow just above the pass and entered into an even thicker cloud of chilled humidity. Passing through a cool, damp meadow that clung to a small ledge on the mountainside, I suddenly spotted Trainwreck. We had first met Trainwreck in the desert, had hiked near him and his crew for several hundred miles, and had continued to cross paths occasionally throughout the Sierra. We spoke briefly before continuing on our way, and he provided useful information about the trail ahead. According to him, the descent down to Kennedy Creek and then about a mile on the other side was still overgrown and tangled with blowdowns. After that, however, the trail would open up. That would be the end of The Jungle.
I had almost forgotten that I was still in The Jungle, especially after the beautiful section of high elevation around Mica Lake, but soon I was descending through the dissipating clouds, toward the creek, and fighting for every step through the underbrush that grew nearly eight feet high. Passing another NOBO that I knew, he reassured me that I only had a few more miles of rough going. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he still had about two days left. Kennedy Creek was similar to the Suiattle River in that the wide channel was carved deep into the eroded mountainside and filled with piles of boulders. Supposedly, there used to be a bridge here, but it was washed out many years ago, perhaps during the same storm that destroyed the Suiattle River bridge. The good thing was that with most of the snow melted for the season, the flow of the creek had diminished enough that there was a viable crossing across an old tree. I had read reports that this was a relatively sketchy crossing, and maybe it was earlier in the season, but I found it to be a safer and drier crossing than many other footlogs along the trail. Fighting my way through the final miles of The Jungle, it was as if it was attempting to hit me with a grand finale of sorts. The trail was almost completely eroded and had turned into a small creek. The underbrush was now not only a leafy annoyance, but had acquired thorns that scratched and stabbed as I fought my way through. Even the blowdowns were seemingly in on it, as the last few blocked the trail completely, with no way to pass over, under, or through. The only way past was to slide down the muddy, nearly vertical hillside and then scramble back up to the trail on all fours, only to repeat the whole ordeal in about fifty feet.
Suddenly, the trail opened up. There was a discernable path through the forest now, completely unobstructed. I had made it! I had conquered what was arguably the toughest section of the entire trail, and after passing through it, I don’t think there’s any argument at all. Kicking it into high gear, I was almost running along the relatively flat and wide-open path through the shady forest. Soon, I was headed up the climb toward Red Pass, but even that seemed easy compared to what I had just been through. Emerging from the tree line, I entered a large alpine basin on the south shoulder of Glacier Peak and continued to make my way toward the ridge. The golden yellows of fall wildflowers and the fiery reds of late-season blueberry and huckleberry bushes lined the trail, intermixed into the soft green grasses taking advantage of some of the final warm days of the year. Behind me, the severely diminished extent of the southern-facing glaciers shone brilliantly in a glistening patchwork of white among the rocky heights of the peak. To my left, the land sloped to the bottom of the basin and then rose sharply to a long, exposed ridge. To my right, the land rose more gently, covered in the vibrant colors of fall.
Pushing up the final approach to the pass, I turned back toward Glacier Peak for the final time. Over the course of the last three days, I had circled the base of the mountain through some of the most remote, rugged and wild wilderness that I had ever experienced. I knew that on the other side of the pass, the trail would begin to bring me closer to civilization again. Closer to trailheads and paved roads and eventually to towns and highways. I already missed the feeling of walking for days and never being within a days walk of anywhere. There would be more sections of trail like that, but the sense of isolation of the North Cascades is second to none. Reaching the pass, I looked out to the horizon and spotted Mount Rainier for the first time, still over eighty miles away as the crow flies, along the hazy horizon. That night, I made my camp in a small grove of trees near the ridge of a wide-open, golden mountainside. Hawks and falcons and eagles called out as they swooped and drifted high above. The wind whispered tales passed down for millennia as it blew softly over the open ridge and through the trees surrounding my camp. As I sat there, overlooking the unwavering landscape, untouched by the destructive hand of human development, a sense of peace within me was renewed. For the first time since I had resumed my hike, I was filled with a sense that I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere else but there.
When I awoke the next morning, I was greeted by a hazy layer of smoke that had once again blown in from the east overnight. I was undeterred, however, because throughout the day, I walked through a vast network of alpine meadows and high ridges above the tree line. I love forested trails, but to me, there is nothing better than hiking through the vastness of wide-open spaces. The vibrancy and contrast of colors under the full force of sunlight, and the seemingly endless views across the landscape, to me, is simply insurmountable. Throughout the day, I hiked near Stray Cat and T-Rex. I had first met them in the Sierra, but they were now headed south after flipping from northern Oregon to the Canadian border. I was relieved that I wasn’t the only person headed south. Having caught up with them for the first time yesterday, I had since crossed paths with them at least every couple of hours. They didn’t hike as fast as me, but they were up before the sun and hiked late into the evening with only a few brief breaks during the day. Even as I finally crossed a particularly rocky pass and descended down toward camp at Pear Lake, they arrived about an hour later, filled up on water, and kept pushing.
I woke up at some point in the dark, predawn hours and spotted a puddle of water in my tent. It was raining lightly, and somehow the rain was flowing along the mesh at the front corner of my tent and was channeling its way inside. Luckily my pack-towel was dry, so I mopped it up and attempted to tension the tent better. Luckily, that solved the problem. By sunrise, the rain had diminished to a light mist that was barely distinguishable from the thick, chilly humidity that hung over the still waters of the lake. Leaving camp, I began the climb up toward Grizzly Peak just as a few rumbles of thunder shook the ground. Of course, Grizzly Peak is a wide-open mountain top that the trail crosses directly over the top of, completely exposed to the wind, rain and any local burst of electrostatic charge that finds the needs to equalize itself in the form of a heart-stopping bolt of lightning. Luckily, the storm kept its distance as I crossed, and began to fade as I descended. Soon, the sun was shining as I descended toward the glistening depths of Lake Valhalla. This place, as a side-effect of its proximity to a trailhead just east of Stevens Pass, was overrun with day hikers and weekend backpackers to the point at which it was completely unenjoyable. Yes, it was beautiful from a distance, but within earshot and sightline of the hoards of people that lined the shoreline, all I wanted to do was find a quiet place to camp. Soon, I spotted the perfect spot, hidden from the trail and just a couple miles from Stevens Pass. It was still relatively early in the afternoon, but I enjoyed simply watching the small creek and sitting, alone but not lonely in the forest, as hundreds of trail runners and day hikers and weekend backpackers and NOBOs passed by about twenty yards away, completely unaware of my presence.
The next morning, I made my way, as expeditiously as possible, down the last few miles of trail to Highway 2 and the Stevens Pass Ski Area. Luckily, the trail followed the route of the first railroad over the pass, so I was able to make good time along the wide and relatively flat path. The most pressing issue and the underlying cause for my haste was that I knew there would be pit toilets at the parking lot. Let’s just say that after 110 miles of wilderness, a throne to sit on is a welcome luxury and a top-tier amenity. Making my way from the parking lot over to the lodge, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to pick up my resupply box for about two more hours and had planned to find a nice, comfortable bench and make myself at home until they opened, but instead, I met Squirrel. Squirrel had been hiking NOBO but had been forced off trail at Snoqualmie Pass a few days prior due to a shoulder injury. Having no firm plans in place for the immediate future, he had retrieved his converted van from the Seattle area, and was now hanging around trailheads and providing trail magic in the form of the most impressive smorgasbord of fresh food and drinks that I had ever seen. Hanging out in the parking lot as he set up for the day, other hikers slowly filed in. He had originally hoped to rejoin his tramily when they came through later that afternoon, but he had since changed his mind and decided to give himself more time to recover. Soon, another NOBO hiker who had been recently forced off trail due to injury showed up in her truck and began offering rides down the mountain to Leavenworth. By midday, that corner of the parking lot had been converted to the most comprehensive trail magic base that I had seen the entire trail. We had fresh tacos with every side item imaginable, we had cold drinks of every variety that filled no less than five coolers, we had transportation to and from town, we even had shade and lawn chairs.
As I unpacked my resupply box (I didn’t need to go into town), I looked around and counted over twenty-five hikers just hanging out and having a good time. The vast majority of the crowd was headed north and talked excitedly about finishing the trail. Most of them would reach the border in the next ten days, a massive accomplishment so close to completion. As I spoke with Squirrel, however, we discussed the physical toll that such an accomplishment takes on almost everyone. “It just beats you down after a while,” he said, “Look around, everybody’s hurting. Yes, it’s a great accomplishment to hike from Mexico to Canada, but at what cost?” He wasn’t wrong, the impact of nearly 2500 miles of walking was evident in every NOBO that passed through. At a certain point, the average human body just starts to break down. I had experienced that firsthand, he had as well. I knew many hikers who had experienced the same thing, and it wasn’t just limited to people who hadn’t been able to complete the journey. Even Jackpot, on the way back to Harts Pass from the border, had mentioned that he was in almost constant pain, but had been able to push through. Maybe 2650 miles is too much for most people. Rather, I would venture to say that 2650 miles is most definitely too much for most people, but then again, maybe that’s why we do this in the first place. The trail routinely pushes us to our breaking point, but to me, that’s the beauty of this journey. It serves as a constant reminder that the mind can push the body to keep going long after the body has given up. I’ve read that hiking this trail requires perhaps twenty percent physical effort and eighty percent mental determination, but I’ve come to realize that this journey requires every single ounce of physical effort that we possess. It just so happens that when those reserves of physicality are emptied, willpower and mental fortitude are what carry us the rest of the way. As I finally headed out of the parking lot, back toward the trail, I contemplated Squirrel’s comments. Sure, the cost of the trail often manifests itself as physical exhaustion, pain, and sometimes injury, but the reward from persevering through those temporary struggles is a deeper understanding of human resiliency and a wealth of knowledge and experience that will prove valuable, even as the trail becomes a distant memory.
