September is a wildcard. Sometimes it is blissful, a local’s summer that hits the trifecta of perfection for outdoor adventure: good weather, no bugs, smoke-free. Sometimes, it is wet, stormy, moody. In short: September is unpredictable. After just getting caught in a hail storm in August, I’m…apprehensive, to say the least, about what the first 10 days of the month will bring, but whatever it does, I’ll be out there hiking through it.
Why this month? After getting absolutely demolished by mosquitos last July, I told myself I was done with early to mid summer backpacking (at least for a little while). Oregon is notoriously buggy, too – with myriad ponds and small lakes and glorified puddles, it’s mosquito hell until things begin to dry out. I told myself I’d rather hike in rain for a week than sprint through another section fighting demons. So here I am, checking weather daily, hoping the sun pulls through for a glorious week of solo backpacking heading north once more on the PCT.
DAY 1 (87 TOTAL)
Santiam Pass to Mile 2025.1 (NOBO), 23 Miles
1,322 Total PCT Miles
There are two undeniable facts I am hit with upon waking up. I am nervous. I am nervous, and the weather is going to be perfection. In theory, the latter should help with the former, but alas, the feeling lingers. This is both unsurprising and comical, given that I have enough miles under my feet to not be nervous but somehow always get pre-trip jitters anyway. As for the weather, I simply can’t believe my luck.
Kellen, who is unable to join me for this adventure, helps me load up the car with my backpack and poles, assuring me I’ve double (triple) checked enough and have everything. The drive up to Santiam Pass is quiet and uneventful, and it’s not long before we are pulling into the trailhead.
We step out of the car into the crisp morning air. The sky is clear, the day promising. I double check the car for any straggling items, tighten my laces and get a few photos, and then set off down the trail with a wave goodbye to Kellen.
^^ Things to note: clearly stoked, wearing my bear socks, new pack (Gossamer Gear, shoutout Glen) looking a bit smaller than uzhe
The morning has been cool but I warm quickly, trudging through burn area on a dusty trail that trends mostly upwards. These first few miles aren’t new to me – I’ve day hiked out here, and Kellen and I have hiked them as a part of a different loop – but it’s been enough time that I still don’t remember every twist and turn of trail. As I approach where the trail begins to cross beneath Three Fingered Jack, a hiker heading south (one of the few people I’ll see all day) tells me there are goats ahead. Cool, I think. It’s always fun to see a goat or two.
I leave the forest behind and as the trail turns rocky, I begin to see white dots speckling the hillside. Goats! They seem to cover the rocks, not a goat or two but at least 15 of them meandering in the shadows of Three Fingered Jack. Because my phone is approximately one thousand tech years old (almost 6 actual years) I do not get one single good picture, but trust me, those white dots are goats.
Things turn hot as I continue through the burn area. In the distance, a large lake shimmers and taunts me. I only stop to filter some questionable pond water 10 miles in (and yell at a chipmunk intent on chomping through my pack). From the questionable pond, I head up and up and up through dusty, hot, burnt trail towards Rock Pile Lake. I’m pretty sure today has had more elevation gain than all other 95 Oregon PCT miles I’ve done this summer.
Finally, FINALLY, I pop out of the burnt/regrowing zone and arrive at the lake. Blue water. Green trees. Soft shaded spot to sit. I ponder going for a swim but end up wading around instead. There’s a cool breeze filtering across the lake and while it does feel good after the climb here, it’s also giving me the sense that there may be incoming weather. So I wade around and then eat my lunch, filter water and air out my feet while trying to dry my sweaty socks and shoes in patches of sunlight.
I fear my lunchtime prediction was accurate. The wind has picked up, venturing into the “hold onto your hat” variety. Overhead, clouds begin to gather, the sky darkening. My pace quickens. I don’t want to race weather this next week, but right now it’s less about not wanting to get rained on as it is wanting to be somewhere lower than a slice of open trail winding through dead burnt trees on a ridge line. The descent continues. The sky darkens. I stop briefly to filter water from a quickly drying pond and then am immediately on my way again, because getting to set up my tent with no rain is in reach.
I arrive at a tentsite off to the side of the trail and, finding a spot that is flat enough and away from the trail, slip off my pack and get to work on my tent. It’s eerie, the way that the weather is stormy but silent. Dark clouds roll over and past, but they bring nothing. I cook outside, the only sounds the hiss of my stove and then the bubbling of water, following by the scraping of my spoon against the pot as I scoop ramen into my mouth. The air is still, the forest quiet – only a smattering of rain drops hitting my tent. I crawl into bed early, tired from the miles and tired from the energy it often takes to simply get to the starting line of a trip like this.
DAY 2 (88 TOTAL)
Mile 2025.1 (NOBO) to Olallie Lake Resort, 23.3 Miles
1,345.3 Total PCT Miles
My eyes peel open to the beeping of my alarm and I’m surprised to note I slept pretty well last night. Unzipping my tent, I peer outside and am met with rolling mist and heavy fog. There’s a bite to the air, the morning crisp and dark. Ah yes, September. Gone are the 5:00 am sunrises of summer. I tuck this reminder into the back of my head, for later sunrises also mean earlier sunsets. If I want to avoid hiking in the dark, I’ll need to condense my miles into the shorter daylight hours. Gone are the 5:00 am sunrises, yes, so gone, too, are the 15 hours of daylight that make hiking in the dark an activity that would actually require some planning to do.
I take my time getting ready, allowing dawn to break. After backpacking last week, I am already in the rhythm of breaking down camp, and it goes quickly. Then, I am on my way, setting off down the trail layered in jacket and beanie, the only sound my feet upon the trail. These first miles are quiet. Very, very quiet. The trail winds its way along a high ridge and then through deep forest, and I wonder if I’ll see anyone today.
Descending through the soft blue of dawn, I reach a creek that winds its way up a narrow green valley towards Mt. Jefferson (I actually recognize it from pictures Kellen showed me of a backcountry ski day he did up on Jefferson). With a little rock hopping, I am across the creek with dry feet and then am hiking upwards once more into the darkness of the woods.
As the morning fog begins to burn off into the heat of early afternoon, I walk through one more ashy, burnt section of trail (stopping only to filter water at a crystal clear and freezing cold stream that threads through the barren landscape) before crossing into the comparatively lush Jefferson Wilderness. The day has turned into a stunner. I pass by ponds and small lakes and, for a time, walk alongside a creek rushing with milky-gray silty water. There’s a sprinkling of orange paintbrush, and some tiny pink flowers, and not a single tree is singed. At last. And then I begin to climb.
Oh, Oregon is flat? News. Fuh-lash. It’s not. The elevation gain from the ponds of Jefferson Wilderness up to the top of this ridge is a grind. The trail shoots straight up from the bottom of the valley I was walking through. It’s the kind of trail from which you can see a ridge high above you and think “No. Please don’t let that be where this goes.” And then that’s exactly where the trail goes. The sun is hot overhead and I am officially hungry, but everything here is alive and so that has to count for something.
I find a comfy spot along the ridge and plop down onto my foamie, views of Hood on one side and of Jefferson on the other. As I pull out my food bag and dig through it for lunch, I think about how wild it is to see Hood looking oh so far away in the north and knowing that I am walking on my own two foot all the way there.
The descent from lunch is rocky and exposed. I pass dried mini ponds and large dried out puddles, grateful at each passing that I am here in early fall and not peak summer. I imagine July here is mosquito hell. Yes, it’s hot now, but there are no bugs and the sky is clear and it seems that gambling with September has paid off. The descent continues, and the landscape around me transitions to yet another burn zone.
The landscape of the afternoon is dry. Crackly. As I get closer to Olallie Lake Resort, though, it’s with a kind of relief that I begin to see lakes speckling the horizon, softening the harshness of this afternoon. I’m struck by the juxtaposition of all that beautiful wild blue water and the absolute destruction surrounding it.
Everything, I swear, is burnt. Scorched. Crispy. Toasted. Overcooked. Ashy. Torched. Dead. It’s a miracle there are any living trees left in the entire state of Oregon. It’s a little sad, to be honest, but I can’t really find the energy to dwell too much on it as I march ahead.
All day I’d been hearing about two PCT northbounders (NOBOs) who were “not that far in front of me” (ok fine, the two people I’ve seen in total today told me) and it’s with a half mile to go before Olallie that I catch them, passing quickly with a hello. I’ve hardly seen anyone out here, let alone people hiking north, so coming across them is a fun surprise. And then, I wander into Olallie Lake Resort. This place is an oasis – in its own right, yes, but even more so in contrast to a day full of burn zones. The sky is blue and the lake is blue and the trees on the resort side of the water are lush and very much alive. I inhale a deep breath.
I’ll do some meandering around the resort later this evening, but first on my agenda is to set up my tent in the wooded area reserved for hikers. I imagine in peak thru hiker season, these spots go quickly. Today, though, it is only me and the other NOBO’s, who roll in not too far behind me and set up their tent at a nearby picnic table. We may be the only hikers camped here, but the resort is still a buzz of activity from families and older couples.
I cook dinner and fend off a bold little chipmunk demon who is very interested in my food (it’s giving chipmunk from this hike kinda vibes). Then, I wander, first over to sit out by the dock, then down on the other side of camp by the water, taking in the golden glowy hour. What a perfectly stunning evening, the blues so pure and the light so dreamy.
7:30 pm hits, though, and I’m in my sleeping bag. I’m wiped, and it’s dusky, this beautiful end to the day fading quickly to darkness.
DAY 3 (89 TOTAL)
Olallie Lake Resort to Warm Springs River, 19.1 Miles
1,364.4 Total PCT Miles
You’re probably not reading this blog for hiking advice, but I’m going to take this moment to share a little lesson anyway: while possible, it is not recommended to hike a 19 mile stretch fueled only by a bar, a Chomp, and one package of Clif shot blocks.
I don’t want to get ahead of myself, though, so hold tight.
I wake up in the morning to smoke. Well, technically I wake up first in what I think is the middle of the night to the sound of a car pulling into the resort. It’s pitch black out and I’ve been dead asleep, so naturally I am instantly filled with rage at whomever is rolling up at this unfortunate hour. Turns out it’s 9:00 pm. Ah, September. Yet another reminder that 10:00 pm sunsets are already long, long gone.
But THEN I wake up to smoke, the sky a hazy mess and the air smelling of campfire. After what I’ve walked of Oregon so far, I’m not sure how there’s any living trees left in the state to burn. Thankfully, whatever fire is causing it doesn’t seem to be too close to really be of concern. Just a nuisance.
I’m slow getting ready. The smoke is bumming me out, and today is the day I’ll cross through a section of trail that has had numerous reports of mountain lions in the previous weeks. Now, I know mountain lions aren’t just sitting around near trail for days on end waiting for hikers to pass by. They roam through their ranges and can cover a lot of ground. Even so, it’s made me a bit nervous. I’m solo hiking. There’s not many people out on trail. And again…multiple sightings. I feel uneasy.
The first two miles of the morning are through, you guessed it, a burn zone. Even though this section does have some living foliage, I’m so over it. I know, I know. These sections are interesting in their own way, they can provide lots of views, the burn allows for amazing new growth yadda yadda yadda. But I’m still over it. I’m over the eerie sound of wind through dead trees and how hot these sections are in the afternoon and how ashy and truly ominous and dead everything is. I’m sure some of this is just prompted by my general unease but regardless, I am not vibing with the burn zones right now.
My plan becomes this: stop for a little break a couple of miles before the spot of the sightings (these multiple sightings have been at the same tent site alongside the trail). Eat some snacks, drink some water, then hike through the section non-stop until I reach camp. Even though the odds of yet another sighting would seem improbable, mountain lions are clearly frequenting the area and there’s no need for me to be a sitting duck at their favorite spot.
Now, before you begin to think I’m crazy, I’d like to reiterate a couple of facts: mountain lion sightings are generally unusual (so it’s odd there have been multiple sightings of multiple cats), I am hiking solo, there have been very few people I’ve come across on trail, and lastly, the mind is a very powerful thing.
The morning finds me quite deep in my head. I finally reach a little unused dirt road crossing and toss my pack down, ready to take the one quick break I’ll have all day. Unwrapping a Chomp, I see that I have a flickering half bar of service and give Kellen a call. As the phone rings, I begin to think I’m actually going crazy. I know that cougars can chirp, but how’s that different from a bird chirping? What about the chirp of chipmunks or other small rodents? The forest is alive with chirping right now. I tell myself it’s just the birds popping off, which it probably really is, but it’s unsettling.
I finish up the spotty call with Kellen, reject an incoming call from the orthodontist (can’t you see I’m out here alone feeling peaceful and at ease in nature?! </s), sling my pack back on, and turn down the trail to face the remaining miles. And face them I do, stomping through the next few hours without slowing. It’s exhausting. In the 2-3 miles of the specific sightings, I look like a bobble head with the amount of swiveling I am doing. I’m looking to the left of the trail, to the right, I’m looking in trees, I’m checking over my shoulder. I 😀 am 😀 paranoid! 😀 Love that.
The afternoon flies by because I am flying. Even with a later start this morning, I get to Warm Springs River around 3:00 pm. My tent immediately goes up and I unfurl my foam pad so that I can lay down and listen to the soothing sounds of the flowing water as I decompress and stare out the top of my tent at the trees. I love hiking and I’m happy to be outside but sometimes you just need a minute (or two hours) to not have to think about how you’re outside. Don’t worry, STILL better than a day in the office.
After laying around in my tent from 3-5, downing a liter of electrolytes, and snacking on dried fruit and nuts, I’m feeling much more regulated.
At five I get out and begin cooking, saying hello to the NOBO’s that eventually arrive (and hearing with relief that I was not the only one who spent most of today paranoid). By 6:15, the sun is rapidly lowering and the forest is beginning to lose light. A handful of flies and the occasional mosquito begin to surface, and I partially want to stay sitting out here and partially want to crawl into bed even though it’s not even 7. There’s something nice about being still and quiet out here, though, entertained only by the sounds and colors and textures of the outdoors. I climb into my sleeping bag early and fall asleep to the sound of the creek.
As much as I’d love to report out that I was able to mentally overcome the thoughts of mountain lions and annoyances at burn zones, today, I simply was not. And that’s life on the trail. Thankfully, I have enough miles under my feet to know that days like this still have endings and no two days will be the same. Cheers to a fresh start tomorrow.