The Trail Pt. 2 (PCT Section J)

After several days of driving, including a car breakdown, there has never been a crew more overjoyed to be back on the trail. At this point, we didn’t even care which trail. We would have been happy with anything. Clear skies overhead, soft ground under-foot, and many miles of wilderness ahead, we began a new journey as a tramily of five into section J of the Pacific Crest Trail. Snoqualmie Pass to Stevens Pass.

Unlike the photo taken at the trailhead in Yosemite, I was not nervous in this picture. My stomach was not turning loops, and my head did not feel over-inflated. I was continuing a journey that I had already started. Just in a different place, on a different trail (technically connected) and with incredible friends. I had no longer had any excuse to not enjoy every second. I had been given 70 more miles of wilderness, no more. I’d better make it count.

As we continued to climb, we were gifted with views of the endless rocky, green expanse of the Cascades. Unlike most of the John Muir Trail (at least the part we were familiar with), water flowed freely here. The soil had a faint damp quality. There was humidity in the air. Best of all, the skies were clear. No ash rained down. No fires burned out of control over the next ridge.

This is the crest of the Kendall Katwalk. A narrow crossing between two ridges, the trail drops sharply on either sides for hundreds of feet, with only a footpath to stand on. No handrails contaminate the view, not even a cable. Good – this is wilderness after-all. Having left the evening before from the “Kendall Katwalk Trailhead,” this was the destination for day hikers. For us, this marked the beginning. Crossing the ridge, out of sight and earshot from Interstate 90. Beginning our first full day on this trail. Entering the wilderness.

Being in the fittingly-named Alpine Lakes Wilderness, we stopped after a short day to camp on the shores of Ridge Lake, only a stones through up over said ridge to Gravel Lake (above). Upon deciding to investigate these lakes further, and (luckily) choosing the smaller of the two on which we were camped, I nearly contracted hypothermia after swimming to “that shoreline just over there – it doesn’t look very far.” I’ve always been a strong swimmer, but that was the coldest water I have ever spent any substantial amount of time in. We would see the next day that the next lake down the trail, Alaska Lake, still had ice and snow along its northern shore. Cold indeed. I spent the rest of the day on the sunny rocks, wearing every article of clothing I had brought.

The following morning brought fog, or clouds, or smoke. Which one we could never determine for certain. We ultimately decided to split the difference and call it smog. We knew that several large fires were burning in Oregon and a few even in southern Washington. Slightly disappointed in the limitation of sight but relieved that it did not seem oppressive on the lungs, we journeyed on.

The combination of haziness, along with the damp, green foliage led my thoughts to the trails that I grew up walking. The Smokies, the southern Appalachians, but more closely resembling the rocky, open peaks of Roan Highlands – my favorite wilderness area of the eastern US.

If anything, the haziness only amplified the vast, rugged beauty of this range, emphasizing the towering peaks and the dark, green valleys.

As we climbed higher among the peaks over the first couple days, the feeling underfoot changed drastically. Dominated by soft earth and damp pine needles at lower elevations, we soon found ourselves on shear rock faces and towering scree fields. Every rock we stepped on seemed to move. None were steady. Ever since meeting Emily and Morgan near Donohue pass, we had a system in which we weren’t allowed to complain about anything, but could instead “mention” our grievances. “Mentions” of the lose rock path dominated our discussions, alongside “mentioning” whether in our opinion the haze that disrupted our view was of fog or smoke.

After climbing the long, dry switchbacks up Escondido Ridge, we were overjoyed to see the letters “H2O” scraped into a rock. We followed the side trail to this small, unnamed lake where we decided to camp for the night. The receding waters of the glacial pond afforded us a rare grassy campsite, complete with an alpine driftwood bench.

Despite the haziness, we were still gifted with magnificent views of glacier capped peaks from across the valley. While on the John Muir Trail, we never reached the portion of trail (the southern portion) that climbs high enough to pass through prime glacier-country. The peaks in Washington are much lower, but the higher latitude allowed us to experience a similar alpine environment.

The primary difference between the Sierra Nevada of California and the Cascades of Washington is the density and quantity of inhabitants, both breathing and not. Every ridge and valley and hillside in Washington seemed to be teeming with life. Creeks meandered and sometimes crashed towards the valley floor. Marmots and pikas whistled from their invisible hide-outs. Blueberry and huckleberry grew so plentiful that the native creatures could not keep up with the supply. Instead of the high Sierra peaks where the beauty comes partly from the scarcity and ruggedness, the Cascades seemed very much like a land of plenty. Still wild, still rugged, but more hospitable, friendlier.

Although the fog, or smoke, or smog, or clouds (whatever it was) fully socked us in for several days, we only experienced two instances of rain. One small shower while we were camped at Deep Lake succeeded only in dampening our clothes that we had hung out to dry. A second shower that couldn’t really even be considered a shower dropped approximately twenty-five raindrops on us as we were leaving camp the next morning, just enough to make us scramble, however momentarily, for our raingear.

Nothing beats taking in the view of a lake and surrounding peaks from the lakeshore, except maybe the view down on the same lake from a thousand feet higher. From there, everything is put into scale. The lake that seemed massive from camp now seemed like a small pond. From the overlooking ridgeline, the tributary creek can be traced, coming out of nowhere among the peaks, it roars down the valley, feeding the oasis. Where the water was coming from, I truly couldn’t tell. There were no substantial glaciers in sight. Still, I took a deep breath and enjoyed feeling the humidity in my lungs. Even the air in this range is more hospitable.

And the sky finally decided to clear. By the time we reached Deception Lakes, the solid blanket that had covered us for several days had broken up into many smaller pockets of haze (not really clouds), drifting across the sky. Between them, we were gifted with clear, blue skies. The reflection on the glassy waters of the lake was the perfect backdrop to the huge campsite that we managed to secure. Plenty of room for four tents, widely spaced, along with more than enough communal space for meals, all overlooking the water.

I would be remiss not to mention one of the defining aspects of this trail. Apparently, mid-September is the peak of blueberry and huckleberry season. If what we experienced isn’t the prime season, then I can’t imagine what is. I cannot accurately describe how many berries were growing in these mountains. Some days it seemed like we spent more time picking berries than we did walking. We picked berries while we walked, while we rested, before we ate, after we ate, at camp, even while we sat on the privy “Which hand was I using for berries again?” Everyday, we would dread leaving such a plentiful valley, only to traverse the next ridge (through more berries) into a valley with even more than the last.

Alpine glacial lakes are an interesting thing. They are all formed the same way, but the valley in which they form in determines their unique nature. In a broad, flat valley, they may form among meadows and rolling hills, with long, sandy shorelines. In more confined valleys, they may form with rocky shorelines and very little open space nearby. In deep-cut valleys, they may form into completely inaccessible, rugged pockets that seem to cling delicately into the steep chute of the mountain. Accessible to the eyes only, I always wonder if anyone has ever exerted themselves enough to reach the shoreline far below. Has anyone ever decided it was worth it just for a swim? Probably someone at some point, but at the same time maybe not. The expanse of the wilderness is still wide and I find it difficult to believe that every nook and cranny has already been explored.

A typical southern-facing slope in September in the Washington Cascades. Berry bushes intermixed with many other small shrubs whose names are unknown to me. I’m a lot of things, but a botanist isn’t one of them. I am content with simply admiring the various shades of green and yellow and the various textures of each plant. Maybe I would have a greater appreciation for these living hillsides if I knew by what name they were called by the experts in that field of study. If I knew by what name they were known by some professor in some distant university, with low, asbestos ceiling tiles and dim, cinder-block corridors. I don’t think so. I’ll keep confusing blueberries for huckleberries (and the other way around), and calling others among them “those low, shrubby bushes with the jagged leaves.” I do not know their names, but that has not and will never keep me from appreciating the way their branches bend towards the afternoon sun, or the fragrant smell of those unnamed blooms, damp with morning dew.

On our final evening around the dinner table (ok, “table” isn’t quite accurate), we realized that we had been so busy snapping pictures of the peaks and ridges and valleys and lakes that we had neglected to take many photos of our tramily. Yes, we had still known one another for less than two weeks, but at this point, we really were a tramily. There was an inherent trust and bond among us that can only come from five incredibly unique individuals sharing the same experiences and same struggles in the wilderness. From left to right: Rykie and Kobus, Emily, Morgan, and myself.

Leaving our last camp, on the shores of Mig Lake, we came to the realization that our time together was coming to a close. No matter how slow we hiked, we would be done with the trail in just a few miles. Many of us, myself included, felt conflicted. I was looking forward to being off the trail, mostly for the sake of the good food that I knew was waiting in the nearest town. I still wasn’t ready to leave the trail though. I wished that we could have taken a day off the trail, and then hitched a ride back to Stevens Pass and continued on down the trail, back into the wilderness. I wished that our group had more time to share stories and laugh together. I wished that I could have just a few more days of fellowship with these incredible people. People that, had it not been for our shared love of hiking, I probably would have never spent the time to get to know. But that was not the plan. We all had other plans and our lives off the trail were calling. Over the next couple days, Kobus and Rykie returned home to Georgia, Emily retrieved her car (Lil’ Fancy had been fixed up good as new while we were on the trail) and returned to Oregon, and Morgan headed back to Idaho. I, however, still had some more exploring to do before I headed back home to Tennessee.

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