DAY 3 (101 TOTAL)
NOBO Mile 2342.7 to 2370.9, 28.2 miles
1,593 Total PCT Miles
Surprise, surprise, guess who doesn’t sleep much at all last night!
Visions of being stalked by a cougar (and the sounds of the woods…and my imagination, and…) aside, I wake up blearily to smoke – the air thick with it. It must have rolled in sometime during the night because my throat is raspy and my tent smells like it’s been pitched in a campfire.
No time to dwell on it, though. I’m up early and packing up quickly, ready to hike by 6:30 am with Sea Wolf. I worry for about two seconds if she’s worried she’s signed up to hike out with a slow section hiker, then shake the thought from my head. I am many things, but a slow hiker is not one of them.
We begin our day in the orange glow of a hazy sunrise, traipsing through a burn scar. Usually I find these exposed sections draining – I can already feel the heat of the day and it’s not even 7:00 am – but we’re hitting this one early and the openness is actually refreshing after how claustrophobic the woods were last night.
And sure, there’s safety in numbers but even more so, it’s just fun to chat with another girlie on the trail. We stop for water at a stream still crystalline despite the burnt trees, then eventually reenter the woods shortly after. It’s darker and cooler in here, quiet until an elk crashes through the underbrush and we come across the hum of hikers packing up their things. Everyone else must have camped here last night and by the looks of it, it was a full house.
Swept up in the quietness of morning and our ongoing conversations, I don’t take many photos, content to be fully present with the trail and the forest and the rising heat. As we walk, we make plans for a mid-morning break at the Mike Urich cabin. Made of logs and set at the edge of a meadow, grass shimmering in the sun, it looked cute and rustic, but I wasn’t falling for it. The posted warnings and trauma-inducing horror stories from years past about Norovirus are enough to make me cautious.
Have there been any outbreaks this year? I haven’t heard of any, but I’m not taking any chances. If fearing diarrhea in the woods makes me a coward, so be it.
We arrive at the cabin and I am careful to not touch a single thing. Everything is lava! I mean…everything is Noro! Deck? No thanks. Door handle? Pass. Pit toilet out back? Not a single chance. I set my pack in the shade of the cabin, feet from the edge of the building. It feels like even looking at something for too long will give me Noro. Diarrhea, nausea, and vomiting, among a slew of other symptoms, are not on my bingo card for this hike and I’d like it to stay that way.
Upon leaving the cabin, we climb and descend, climb and descend, pausing only to grab berries off trailside bushes.
I’m doing hiker math on my fingers (some combination of “if I average 3mph for x amount of miles I’ll be hiking for y amount of hours and need z amount of liters of water” and so on) when we come across who I’ll learn is Scales lounging on a log trailside. She walks with us to the next water, a creek springing out of a hillside. Sources in this section have been beautifully cold and clear, but surprisingly few and far between. After we filter, sit, chug some water, and have a snack, the three of us (Scales, Sea Wolf, and I) continue on.
Understatement of the year: it’s so fun to be hiking with the girls yapping. We are covering ground quickly, but the truth is I hardly notice in all of the fun we’re having, one of us musing out loud that something must be in the berries we’ve been picking all day because we are crushing miles and climbs and also having conversations about bizarre topics.
When we decide to stop for lunch, the three of us tuck ourselves into a small trailside clearing shaded from the relentless sun. There in the dust and dirt, we pull out various combinations of tortillas, crunchy snacks, or in Scales’ case, a block of cheese and a spoon. I love it. I’m hot and sweaty and disgusting but this is happiness.
Unfortunately, this being happiness does not eliminate the nausea I feel after lunch. Between the climbing and the food and the heat, I’m feeling blah to put it mildly. As is the case with any small amount of suffering, though, it is made better by not being alone. The miles pass quickly, all things considered, as we have still hardly stopped talking. It gives me a nostalgic flashback to meeting up with Jet on trail in 2019. After working together all winter and spring, we hadn’t seen each other in something like two months. Once we finally reunited, we’d chat ceaselessly through the miles of our day, prompting K2’s “I have never, NEVER, heard two people talk as much as you two talking while you hike,” as he strode past us on trail with a laugh.
Our next stop, once we’ve covered the topics of Mormonism and whether we would want to have a whole universe to ourselves (the answer is no) is a water source. Once again, a stream has gathered all nearby hikers to its banks as we refill and filter. We’re all there to collect water, but really, in a section with so few sources, it’s the water that has collected us all. (#Philosophy – I told you, something about those berries…) I do more hiker math of how many liters I need to finish hiking today, cook tonight, and survive the next morning with.
Thirst quenched by the crisp water and satisfied with the amount I’d filtered, I hike away at a charge. I want to get to camp with enough daylight to set up and cook, and I’m not working with summer hours anymore. Plus, there’s a small bubble out here and I simply will not have the energy to keep hiking if there’s not space for me at my intended destination.
Though there has been clear sky for much of the day, the evening turns hazy, smoke beginning to close the gap of the blue circle above me. Dark green trees carpet the mountains all the way to the horizon. The sun is golden and at last I crest my final hill, awash in its glow.
I walk into camp by 6:45 pm, all 28.2 miles for my day done. I’m TIRED. There is only one available space at this tentsite (unless you want to be a monster and squish all the grass which we do not) but after my ~overthinking~ all the sounds in the woods last night, I’m not mad about there being three other people here. A rocky little spot that’s borderline a spot at all is all that’s left but I happily accept the rocks. I simply could not hike any more today.
Quickly (or as quick as one really moves at the end of a long day) I set up my tent, cook, eat, and use the bathroom, all before I lose daylight. As I move about my evening tasks, I notice ash once again wafting down from the sky. As dusk begins to fall, Sea Wolf passes by and we wave, saying our quick goodbyes so that she can continue her charge onwards to the border.
Tucking myself into bed that night, I read my kindle in my tent before I begin to fall sleep which is all of about 3 minutes.
DAY 4 (102 TOTAL)
NOBO Mile 2370.9 to Snoqualmie Pass (NOBO Mile 2396.5), 25.6 miles
1,618.6 Total PCT Miles
The morning is warm, the sunrise – again – hazy. I didn’t sleep deeply per se but it was a restful night even so: quiet, calm, no deep woods to be making noise or stirring the imagination.
I start early (well what’s new). “Town” and the end of my section, is ahead but there’s still a very full day between me and finishing.
The day seems extra quiet after all the chatter from yesterday. Otherwise, it’s more of the same (which is neither good nor bad, it just is). More heat, more engineering feats as leaves are used as spouts and water sources are optimized, more stops for picking blueberries and huckleberries, fingers stained purple.
I can never seem to collect enough berries to take photos of because I pop them in my mouth like candy faster than I can grab a picture. At one point, I see a man come out of the woods carrying large buckets for collecting all of the berries and wonder briefly what dilapidated dirt road he had to drive down to get out here.
The day is getting warmer when I stop at the water source I’d been aiming for, the last one before an ascent up to a lake. It’s there at the creek as I sit legs sprawled in front of me, slurping the sweet sweet cold water , that I hear a rustle of branches ahead on the trail and what I can truly, genuinely only describe as the soft, padded thump of something landing gently on the underbrush.
“Hello?” I call out, hoping to see a hiker round the corner and wave a greeting. No one emerges.
Standing, I grab my poles and walk up the trail, calling out once again. At this point I know it’s not a hiker, but if it’s not a hiker then I have to admit it was probably a cat and I don’t really want to admit that. But…come on. Deer don’t sound like that. Elk don’t sound like that. Bears don’t even sound like that. I’ve seen them all in the woods and heard them all in the woods and… this was not any of those. Glancing around, I notice a tree on the opposite side of the trail from which I heard the initial noise swaying in the wind.
Except there is no wind. No other trees are moving, no other branches are shaking, no other leaves are rustling.
I squint and peer upwards, equally wanting to know what’s up there and also trying to convince myself nothing could possibly be up there and I’m totally fine.
^^ Where I was sitting
My theory is that perhaps whatever it was, in all probability some sort of cat, didn’t see me sitting down by the creek (the trail dips down to it). I imagine it leaving its roost in one tree to get some water itself, only to hear me (and probably see me) calling out down the trail with hiking poles raised above my head like a kook. Then, I envision it hopping right back up into a tree on the other side of the trail before I rounded the corner. Whatever the case may be, something was there, of this I was sure, and I was no longer alone on my break.
Making my way back to my pack, heart thundering, I shove headphones back into the hip belt pocket with a shake of my head. So much for wearing these on this last big climb. Because I care to live, it’s probably for the best that I keep both ears attuned to the noises of the woods. I hike away quickly from my seat by the creek, with no small sense of paranoia.
The trudge up towards the next lake goes fast, not because it’s easy but because I’m facing this ascent like a bat out of hell. It’s rage hiking at its finest – an act not so much about being angry as much as it is about being hot and tired and tired of climbing. Sustainable? No. Effective? Yes. I’m surprised I don’t pull a muscle in my neck with how many times I glance over my shoulder, too. By the time I get to the lake, I am absolutely dripping in sweat and grime, and swimming in this lake gives me LIFE. I could stay in the water forever floating, hair fanned out behind my head, but I don’t. Onward. There is always onward, so I drag myself out of the cool water. In the end, turns out my timing was right as I narrowly avoided a snake that swims by at an absolutely ALARMING pace. From the shore, I dry in the sun and lounge on my foamie eating more snacks and prepare for the final miles of this section.
Upon leaving, I do one last round of hiker math as the trail begins to contour away from the lake. Unfortunately, my math equation does not take into account the smoothness of the trail. What I had envisioned as a fun and cruisy 9 mile jaunt downhill turned into a rocky and root filled 9 mile mission that grinds on my knees and feet.
As I continue descending, there is some of the gentle dirt ribbon that’s spoiled me with its smoothness. Mostly, though, there is trail criss-crossed by roots and littered with rocks; big steps up and long steps down, and enough ankle breakers in between to last me a lifetime.
And then, the closer I get to Snoqualmie, there is nothing but glowing orange trees and the silly songs I’m making up in my head to distract from being hungry and tired.
When the trail at last spits me out of the woods and into a parking lot next to I-90, I’m overwhelmed by the sounds of the highway and the hardness of the asphalt beneath my feet. I cross beneath an overpass and walk towards my parents, who are waiting alongside the road.
Together we make our way the 1/4 mile to the parking lot. Back at the car, I’m presented with food, water, and a cotton shirt. It’s the simple things that aren’t just the simple things when you’ve walked big days, and my parents have definitely cemented themselves as trail angels.
The last time I was here in this parking lot was in 2019, after finishing Section J (Steven’s Pass to Snoqualmie Pass) with my friend Skye. Now, I’ve officially connected my miles back to this point. I’ve also officially walked more miles as a section hiker than I have as the thru-hiker I was for a moment in time. I think these days my pack is a little bit smaller and my steps a little more confident. I’ve gotten to share so many miles with old friends and new friends and my husband and myself and not a single step has been taken for granted.
Being in the North Cascades feels like home. I know that writing is this attempt to put experiences into words that may be relatable, or perhaps inspiring, or insightful. The truth of it is, though, it’s hard to put this feeling I get being here into words. It is one of gratitude and awe and a touch of nostalgia; one of wonder and beauty and adventure and discovery, appreciation for people and health and this line pulling me north (and sometimes south) and the mountains that have always called me towards them.
Just like that, the miles from Cascade Locks on the border of Oregon and Washington to Steven’s Pass have all been walked. So have the miles from the Canadian Border to Stehekin. Done, every one of them. All that’s left of my favorite state is one more section. Just (just) 125 miles.
Until next time!