Last year, I did a weekend jaunt south from Elk Lake to Willamette Pass. Now, I get to connect more of my miles as I head north from Crater Lake to Willamette Pass on the Pacific Crest Trail – a section marked by hail and the color blue, water caches and afternoon thunderstorms, ramen and trail stories and a butterfly migration.
DAY 1 (95 TOTAL)
Crater Lake Lodge to North Crater Lake Trailhead (NOBO mile 1849.5), 17.8 Miles
1,460.2 Total PCT Miles
Super blue, the sky and the lake. In the late morning sun, they’re radiant, and I breathe it all in deeply. I’m at Crater Lake with Kellen, who has driven the two hours from Bend to drop me off and will join me for a little bit before driving the two hours back home. He is trail angel, home base command central, search and rescue if something goes wrong. It won’t. Still, it’s nice to know he’s tracking me.
The trail I’m beginning on today is actually an alternate to the PCT. I’ll connect up with the main trail by the end of the day – why would I miss a full morning of these views?! Because for the first nine miles or so, that’s exactly what fills my field of vision. Views upon views upon views. The trail follows the rim of Crater Lake and I meander along it, occasionally dodging tourists and day hikers but mostly having it all to myself, stopping every two seconds to marvel.
By the afternoon, the trail has rejoined the PCT and in doing so, left behind the expansive, reflective blue of the lake. Above me, clouds begin to gather and grow. I decide to skip lunch in favor of getting closer to camp earlier. Is it smart to skip lunch? No. Is it possible to enjoy lunch, though, when the sky is beginning to groan and grumble? Also no. At least, it’s not when you just know it’s definitely going to rain and you’re definitely about to walk through a storm. I wasn’t sure exactly how the storm would shake out, but boy did it shake out.
The sporadic and seemingly random rolls of thunder of the afternoon turn into loud booms. The loud booms then turn into a handful of lighting flashes that have me nervously counting the seconds before a bone rattling thunderclap reverberates through the sky. They don’t get closer than three seconds but if you ask me, three seconds is pretty close.
I’m cruising through the woods at a pace that is nearly a jog. I’m not trying to outrace the storm. No, the time for that has passed. I’m just not comfortable out here amongst the thick of it. On one hand, I’m glad I’m not at elevation, and I’m not above the trees. On the other hand, with the storm nearly on top of me, I am thinking of all the trees that could get struck by lightning. There is something nearly primal in my brain nudging me forward and faster with whispered shouts of Get to shelter! Get to shelter!
As I’m on my war path to camp, I pass by Forester, a retired man I’d met earlier that day. He’s resting on a large downed tree up until the moment another clap of thunder roars so loudly I’m surprised my heart is still in my chest. It’s probably fine. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ The sound sends him to his feet and scurrying along the trail a few paces behind me.
I keep hiking, the thunder seeming to come and go and then come again, briefly, until all at once the noise begins to still. Reaching the boundary of Crater Lake National Park, I pause to fill out the trail register. The storm seems to have officially abated enough for me to relax a little. Overhead, the sky is still dark and ominous, but with no lightning flashing or thunder shaking my actual bones, I feel ok to stop. Into the notebook goes Stripes, and after a quick peruse of who may be ahead of me, I close the register back up and continue the final bit of my day to camp.
I’m stopping at a small series of tent sites just into the woods off of a trailhead. In classic PCT fashion, it’s a trailhead Kellen and I passed this morning on the drive to my starting spot at Crater Lake. Flat ground, some trees, a pit toilet, a picnic table. Luxury.
The evening is quiet as I set up my tent and begin to cook an early dinner. It’s mostly just me and the breeze, until a young family shows up to do some geocaching. I’m silently congratulating myself for not setting up my tent directly on top of their treasure when I hear one of the parents tell their toddling little boy they’re sorry he’s getting swarmed by mosquitos. I stifle a giggle. I am not exaggerating, I think I have seen one single bug since stopping this evening. Who knows, maybe because they’re all chomping on this little guy.
Eventually the family leaves, and rain begins to sputter down again. I crawl into my tent. As I’m laying there, I hear the sounds of another hiker arriving, sighing as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. Upon quietly poking my head out of my tent, I see instead maybe it’s just the weight of all the empty pop cans he has. Hm. Odd, but ok. This loud man aside, it’s good to be back out here.
DAY 2 (96 TOTAL)
North Crater Lake Trailhead (NOBO mile 1849.5) to Maidu Lake (NOBO mile 1867.5), 18 miles (+1 Non-PCT mile to Maidu Lake)
1,478.2 Total PCT Miles
The morning is crisp, but I note with happiness the soft glow hitting the tops of the trees. Clear blue sky is strung overhead. No darkening clouds. Only stillness and sweet silence. I pack up quickly, my body needing the walking to begin to warm and also because despite the calm morning, I imagine there may once again be afternoon storms.
It’s a short walk back to the PCT, and from there the trail becomes a flat ribbon of dirt winding through shimmering forest.
A water cache is my first stop of the morning. Sun warm on my back, I douse my hands in hand sanitizer then fill my bottles, grateful for the trail angels keeping this going. From there, the trail continued through the woods for most of the morning before popping out amongst rocky hillsides beneath Mt. Thielsen. The taste of sub-alpine is delicious. Clear blue sky, rocky peaks above me, and butterflies. So many butterflies. I won’t learn this until I’m off the trail, but there is a California Tortoiseshell Butterfly migration going on in full force. It’s magical.
Beneath Mt. Thielsen is Thielsen Creek, and I could stay here forever. The water is cold. Clear. So easy to filter and soothing to the ears. I grab snacks from hip belt pockets and chug some water, the crispness satisfying. It takes a concentrated effort to peel myself away from where I’m sitting creekside, staring out at the flowing water, but I do, eventually. Water bottles full once more, I shoulder my pack and take to the trail.
Shortly before pausing for lunch, I come across the highest point of the trail in Washington and Oregon. There’s not much here – it’s just an unnamed saddle with a simple wooden sign denoting the elevation of 7,560’ – but worth a little Oooh, nice! nonetheless.
Lunch is relatively short. I take half an hour reclined on my foamie in the dirt, watching the butterflies stream by and the clouds begin to gather.
This weather is keeping me on my toes, and I’m feeling tired by it. I find myself watching the sky, keeping tabs on the clouds, wondering how safe I am when the storm arrives, trying to keep things mostly dry. I’ve built up enough experience in tough conditions to know how to get through them as well as can be – thunderstorms, wind, rain, hail, snow, heat, bugs, bears, the list goes on. Those experience build confidence. But still. It can take a lot of mental energy.
With a little less than a mile to go until my stopping point at Maidu Lake, the squall comes in. There is more cracking thunder, this time complete with a downpour. Arriving at the lake, I take a quick look around and settle on the most decent looking spot. Tent quickly goes up, I quickly dive in.
Oh wait, the downpour is now hail.
I’m on the brink of repeating the Spanish Needle Vestibule River of 2019 incident. Scrambling outside, I give the perimeter of my tent a quick dig to see if that helps the pooling water. It doesn’t. Not really. Not for long. In a quick decision, I opt to get soaked and move my tent to the one spot that doesn’t have giant puddles.
I lay in my tent and stare at the fat drops hitting it until eventually, the roar of the storm begins to calm. I decide to pop my head out of my tent, maybe take my bottle down to fill it at the lake in case it’s raining tomorrow. Ducks are swimming, frogs hopping through the shoreline grass, birds gathering then flitting above the lake, fish jumping with quiet plunks, bees humming. Suddenly the world is not so scary, at least for now. The storm has passed and life goes on. I drag my pack and shoes out into the sun, hoping for even just a little less dampness in my tent. I could stand here on the muddy shore for hours watching the life around this lake wake up again, the sun warm on my face. The bees and the fish and the ducks and the frogs and the gentle breeze. What magic unfolds when we slow enough to see it!
By the time the sun begins to dip below the horizon and the breeze turns chilly, my gear is notably drier. Success. As I’m tucking myself into bed that night, I hear it before I see it – the chopping and churning of a helicopter. Unzipping my tent, I catch glimpses of the reddish-orange and white beast through the trees overhead. Immediately my heart sinks, at least a little. Where’s the fire? It was a pretty good storm we had this afternoon. Some quick Garmin messages back and forth to Kellen reassure that I’m probably fine. There are plenty of spot fires but nothing of immediate concern. Still, thoughts of fire and the ominous sound of a helicopter continue on through dusk until at last I fall asleep.
DAY 3 (97 TOTAL)
Maidu Lake (NOBO mile 1867.5) to Summit Lake Campground, 24.7 miles (+1 Non-PCT mile from Maidu Lake)
1,502.9 Total PCT Miles
I’m up and hiking by 6:30 am, still-damp tent shoved unceremoniously into my pack. Surely there will be time later today to dry it out. Most of the first 13 miles this morning are spent in a green tunnel. Occasionally, lake views that stretch to the horizon or downed trees that called for jungle gym maneuvers interrupted the sameness. Otherwise, it was all forested walking and soft trail, neon moss and green, green, green.
After 13 cruisy miles, I burst from the trees and arrive at Windigo Pass. The pass – a trailhead hugging the side of a forest service road – is a bubble of hikers, everyone gathering for water at the cache and laying out gear to dry in the sun. Oregon has continued to surprise me with how few water sources are actually accessible along the PCT.
Setting my pack down, I begin lunchtime chores before sprawling on my foamie to eat. Tent and groundsheet are pulled out, set carefully nearby in the sun to dry. Water is gathered from the cache. Food bag is surfaced, and at last I sit and stretch my legs, eager to eat. Around me is a swirl of conversation about weather and trail alternates, the forest service road before us being a shortcut into Shelter Cove. I’m sticking to my plan, though, and once I’m fed, I stand to my feet and point myself north once more towards whatever bugs or storms may lay ahead.
No surprise, the clouds have begun to balloon in the previously all-blue sky. The occasional rumble has me once more hustling through the next section, a climb up to an exposed crest. It’s probably fine. But I want to be descending back into the trees by the time the storm hits. If it does indeed hit. Again, I’m not trying to outrun weather as much as I am eager to avoid getting caught at elevation along a rocky, open ridge. Maybe one might call that survival instincts?
With two miles to go until Summit Lake, where I’ll be stopping for the day, I see a small older woman hiking up the trail towards me. As she gets closer, I tell her she’s the first person I’ve seen wearing a bug net. Internally, I’m saying farewell to my sans-bugs hiking and prepare to say hello to a bug net, raincoat, and bug spray. The woman and I talk about the lake for a minute and then, preparing to keep moving, she gives me a once over.
“You look strong. And healthy. And beautiful. Bye darling!” Except her voice is so like Edna Mode’s from The Incredibles that really it sounds more like “bye dah-ling”
She’s hiking past me before I can even give a surprised “Enjoy your hike” in return.
Indeed, as I continue on I quickly resign myself to pulling out a coat and bug net. They’re not bad – not yet. But there is something particularly infuriating about mosquitos going for my face. The bug net is annoying but at least I am no longer swatting myself.
Glimpses of Summit Lake soon begin to appear. Then, the tentsite where I’d planned to end my day. It’s beautiful. Lakeside. But none of the spots are particularly flat, nor do they look like they drain particularly well. With my backpack off, I walk around the space, inspecting, and then to the shoreline to check out the lake. I spend close to 40 minutes waffling. Stay here. Keep hiking. Stay here. Keep hiking. In my stillness, a handful of mosquitos have found me and I swipe at them, annoyed.
Despite the bugs, I’ve decided to stay here when the wind picks up. A high pitched squeaking fills the air, coming from a tree leaning directly over the one spot I’ve deemed suitable enough. I look up. Ok, that’s it. Shouldering my pack, I continue on and eventually land at Summit Lake Campground.
Here, the bugs seem less. There is a pit toilet, a picnic table, and a couple of hikers. I recognize Forester from day one.
“Stripes, is that you? I thought you’d be in Canada by now!” Forester calls out. He welcomes me over and introduces me to Pirate and Stones, brothers in their 40’s. I set my tent up and settle in to the picnic table, where we all eat dinner together.
It’s so sweetly nostalgic, this cluster of tents and chatting with strangers like old friends, the smell of instant mashed potato’s mingling with the wafting cigarette smoke. I’m so happy I didn’t camp earlier. We share trail stories and PCT origin stories, but even with all the yapping, none of us make it to hiker midnight before the air chills and we tuck ourselves into our tents. Not all days are rainy, nor are they stormy, and some days may feel hard but they are still so, so good out here.
DAY 4 (98 TOTAL)
Summit Lake Campground to Willamette Pass, 17.2 miles (+2 Non-PCT miles back to Shelter Cove)
1,520.1 Total PCT Miles
I wake to fog over the water and a bite to the air. Time to pack up quick. Sleeping bag stuffed. Hiking clothes on. Tent disassembled, then shoved into backpack. It’s sprinkling, so I leave my raincoat on, and then I begin to walk. The forest is dark, all mist and cloud and heavy tree cover. I’m taking it all in, kind of enjoying the moodiness and then…what is that. It’s a mask. On a rock. In the woods. Ok, sure. Totally fine. No further questions. Will not be stepping closer for more in-depth inspection.
For the first part of the day, I leapfrog with Pirate and Stones. I stop to pull off my raincoat eventually, and they hike by me. They step off trail for a snack break and I hike by them, and so it goes. The morning passes and with it, the layers of clouds that have now begun to burn off. Before long, I’m surfacing out of the woods and into a section of rocky trail beneath Diamond Peak. With the sun warm on my face, I pull over and find the perfect cradles of rocks to take a break on.
I munch on a snack (nothing like a meat stick at 8:00 am amiright!) and watch the wind carry clouds across horizon until the sound of a rock tumbling down somewhere above me has me scrambling to stand. It sounds alarmingly close. I stop breathing for a second to better hear it as I face the hillside (there are more rocks above where I was sitting behind the trees, although it doesn’t look like it). Eventually the sound peters out, but my peaceful break is over. On goes the backpack and onward I walk.
As the trail hugs around Diamond Peak, there are snow patches, small ponds and stagnant water but…no bugs. These mosquitos must be working 4×10’s this summer because I haven’t seen one today despite the conditions being primed for them. It’s a relief. The breeze is divine and the alpine feel of these miles is stunning and Diamond Peak looks epic. I get to enjoy it all.
Eventually, though, the taste of alpine disappears behind me as I descend down into the woods once more. The junction towards Shelter Cove sees me throwing my things down for a long break in the dappled sun. My feet are sore, but I know I only have mere miles left of this section and I refuse to rage hike them. After calories have been consumed, water chugged, and feet rested, I stand again. I’m walking all the way to Willamette Pass so that I can fully connect the line of my hike to where I left last year. From the highway, I’ll turn down the paved road and walk back to Shelter Cove where a friend will be picking me up.
We eat burgers on the patio amongst groups of hikers, listening to typical trail talk that surely sounds insane to outside ears. Despite the tiredness of my feet and the spicy weather the past couple of days, I’m filled with a warm, fuzzy feeling towards these miles. Towards this trail. The PCT has turned into the dream that keeps on giving as I have the gift of getting out here year after year. The miles have come in smaller packages since those in 2019, but they’re every bit as sweet.