Trail Day 31
I am leaving Trout Lake, a small community of about 600 year-round residents , which has opened itself wholeheartedly to thru-hikers. There is a generous team of drivers taking hikers from the trailhead to the small town and back at least three times a day. My trail family and I came in yesterday soaking wet from our first 24 hours of rain on the trail. That’s right, it did not rain for the first 29 days of July in the Pacific Northwest, but when it did, it thoroughly soaked me and took me back to the drawing board in terms of my gear. I found myself woefully unprepared, and I will definitely be making some adjustments to my kit.
My main trail companion of the last three weeks decided not to stop in this town and instead hiked on by, and the young couple from Canada that had joined us recently stayed in town a little longer than I did, so I am headed out alone this morning. The formation of this small trail family brought me a lot of joy and also a sense of security and community, but the trail has taught me again and again to let go of things, especially plans and expectations. This trail family may not come back together again. The shuttle ride this morning is gregarious, with northbound hikers also returning to the trail, but soon the friendly chatter gives way to silence as I head steeply uphill on the soft forest trail by myself.
Yesterday and the day before the trail circled around the west side of Mount Adams, 180° from north to south and I didn’t see the mountain once. We were buried in a deep fog getting at first misted on, then spit on and finally fully rained on. I am so sad to have missed seeing the mountain in all her glory from such close proximity, but I saw the flowers which were vibrant despite the gray cloud cover. I saw the lava flows, reminding me that I was on the shoulders of a volcano. I saw the miniature subalpine trees, the unusual rocks, the puddles and wetness that are all necessary ingredients to these Cascade mountains. Today the beargrass that brushes against my legs is still damp as are the huckleberry bushes. I am told I will be hiking through a green tunnel from here to the Oregon border, 81 miles of forest with no views, but this is alright with me. I am here to hike the trail as it appears under my feet in any given moment, and this is what I have been doing.
I have had no complaints about this trail. The hard parts: the bushwhacking, the downed trees so large they require rock climbing maneuvers to get over them, the river crossings, the steep uphills and the steep rocky downhills, even the mosquitos, none of it has been a problem. As I get through something difficult, I find myself thinking “this is how it is and I’ll never have to do that again.” I am hiking one way. I am hiking South. I have certainly been on hikes in the past where I have felt frustration and irritability with difficult terrain, but I don’t seem to have any of that kind of energy in me on this trip.
The southbound PCT journey is the introverts PCT. North bound hikers leave the border at a count of 50 hikers per day, there are parties, social gatherings, and large trail families form early. We SOBOs have accepted the fact that we may be traveling alone some or much of the time. We meet each other in smaller numbers, form smaller groups, but ultimately everyone moves into their own rhythm and speed. Connections come and go, like the braiding of streams, our paths join up and separate again, over and over. Welcoming in and letting go, over and over.
The grade before me steepens, the forest is cool, damp and shaded, and I feel my muscles re-engaging with the work of climbing. I have only taken two days off from hiking, mostly favoring the nearly zero day also known as a “Nero” which allows my body to rest just enough without becoming stiff or lethargic. Also, as I mentioned before, I do not like to stay in towns for too long. The town of Trout Lake had everything I needed in less than 24 hours: a shower, a load of laundry, a box I packed months ago waiting for me, a small grocery store to supplement fresh items, a charging station to recharge my electronic devices and a bacon cheeseburger with a huckleberry milkshake.
My body is changing and adapting to this crazy new lifestyle. My skin has remembered how to sweat. Every single pore on my skin can open up and pour sweat at a moment’s notice. My feet and legs have remembered how to walk on snow and rock, my senses have easily relaxed and opened to the sites and sounds and smells of the trail. The way the machinery of my body is dealing with calories is truly remarkable, and I am learning how to stay refueled and hydrated so that I can hike 8 to 10 hours a day and feel alright at the end of it. Sleeping is disrupted and difficult but somehow it’s enough. The most remarkable thing is that I have not had a migraine and at least three weeks. Despite carrying a heavy pack on my shoulders, disrupted sleep, junk food, gluten and high levels of exertion, I have not had a migraine! I’m almost afraid to put this in writing. Those of you who know me well will understand what a big deal this is.
Most of all, my mind is clear and simplified. The internal chatter has gradually quieted, and I am in the ultimate unplugged situation so there is very little incoming bombardment to clutter things up. In many ways, I feel like I haven’t been on the trail very long at all, but I know from retreat practice that it takes a good long while for the mind to settle. I’ve seen so much beauty it cannot be contained in my memory or even in my photos. It can only be appreciated and released, this amazing landscape that I am passing through. It is a long walking meditation. Noticing and letting go. I promised myself I would stay present on this journey. It was part of my intention and something I return to again and again. I am never bored, even in the long stretches of forest.
The sun is filtering through the canopy of this second growth Douglas Fir forest, and I am beginning to warm up as I near the top of this first stout climb of the day. My pack is heavy from the recent resupply, but I don’t mind this as much as I used to. I know I can do this, and I know it will get lighter every day as I approach Cascade Locks and the end of Washington State. Soon it will be time for a clothing change and second breakfast, which usually consists of a bar eaten one to one and a half hours after beginning my hike for the day. The Hobbits had it right with their meal schedule because next comes elevensies right around 11 o’clock , lunch at 1 o’clock, ‘tea’ is another bar and dinner is cooked in camp in a bag. Thanks to the excellent progress made by freeze dried food companies, it is usually delicious.
In the care and tending of the mind, redirecting my thoughts to something in the present moment is my number one choice, something I can see or hear, but sometimes even that can be difficult when an earworm infects me and I don’t want to sing that song anymore or tell myself that old story. This is when I turn to the recitation of poetry. I have enjoyed the way memorized verses come back to me spontaneously while walking. Sometimes my trail family and I would sit together at dinner and share poems, and I was honored to be able to introduce some of my favorites to them. If we never meet again, and if they forget me altogether, I hope they will remember the poetry.
The trail descends deeply, crosses a creek and then begins heading uphill again. I am into the second climb of the day, and I feel so great I have to pinch myself. The trail is hard packed dirt covered with soft pine needles making for easy walking. I pause to look up and enjoy the way the mosses hang down like too much tinsel on a Christmas tree catching the filtered light and shining greenish gold.
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.” (Robert Frost from Stopping by woods on a snowy evening)
