PCT BOLO Blog
4.20.13 - 9.19.13. We walked 2,663 miles. We loved it, and we also missed our friends & family. So, we blogged.
Our blog was a means through which to let our friends & family experience the PCT vicariously through us. It kept us in touch at a time where we were otherwise so physically disconnected. It became a wonderful journal and a beloved space to look back on this incredible experience.
All blogs authored by Jr. Ranger Nunnink are by me. One blog post, Six Moons, is pasted below.
Six Moons
Despite Taylor’s genuine excitement to outrun the Mounties, we got our paperwork sorted out just before leaving Skykomish. All those stereotypes about Canadians being too kind and docile? Well, this conundrum has only further affirmed said stereotypes. After hearing our predicament, the PCT coordinator up at the Canadian border, Bunt, sifted through files of permits to find our paperwork (submitted way back in February!), and kindly agreed to express mail them to our next (and last!) stop before the Mounties were after us. It seemed like a foolproof plan until moments later I got a voicemail from Bunt, kindly stating that since he was in Canada he realized that he wouldn’t be able to mail the permits in time, thus he instead would send us an email with our approved permit numbers, as well as his name should we run into any trouble. Tay and I listened to the voicemail from our new cherished friend in near disbelief at how kind and patient this man was. Feeling accomplished and in good hands, we happily set off once more.
Tuesday took us winding up a gorgeous hillside with views of Glacier Peak and, way off in the distance, Mt. Baker. Ever since the storm back at Snoqualmie pass, the weather has been outstanding. Full sunshine everyday, highs in the 80s or 90s (I actually have absolutely no idea but that’s a guestimate), and the mountainsides, while still mostly a vivid green, are now tinged with hues of golden brown, purples and reds as summer winds to a close.
One of my favorite parts about Washington has been the beautiful meadows that surprise you on almost every mountaintop, stretching as far as you can see. The sight makes you want to don a Maria Von Trapp style frock and twirl down the trail singing the Sound of Music all the way.
As the sun began to set behind the ridge and the waxing crescent moon rose above us, Tay and I simultaneously gasped, knowing this particular full moon to be just another indicator that the end is really near. When we made our tentative schedule we had a few big events determining our timeline – Taylor’s boyfriend, Caleb, will celebrate his birthday on the 20th, one of my childhood best friends is getting married on the 21st, and my sister is due with a baby on the 26th. Bam! Bam! Bam! Thus, while acknowledging we may throw it out in the first week, we outlined an ideal schedule with a pace that would allow us to complete our big walk just before these big celebrations. It just so happens that that schedule began and ended on a full moon, making our trip exactly six full moons long – beginning to end. And it just so happens that, thus far (and to many people’s disbelief!), we are still on schedule. Before the big walk began, both Taylor and I watched the waxing moon every night with a feverish eye given all we had to do to prepare. Every night when the moon rose this week, that same feeling was upon us, but this time with more a sense of bittersweet sadness and excitement as we prepare for the end…. six moons later.
While I had my nostalgic week a few days ago, it seemed to hit Tay this week. She’d sigh and say things like, “Brit, we only have three more full days where it’s just you and I hiking together…” (A friend is joining us for the last stretch.), but I was too hyper and tired to get too nostalgic, “Yes, and you know what else? In three more full days, it’ll have been 144 days where it’s just the two of us hiking together!” Tay sighed, and instead of pursuing further conversation, she quickly gave up on me and simply remarked with the one liner from a Chris Farly SNL skit she uses on me almost every time I say anything these days, “Day and night she talks, each word more useless than the last,” and turned her attention back to her book. I don’t know what I’ll do when she’s not at my side every moment on the day to remind me of this. Oh how I’ll miss her.
As Taylor more sentimental this past week, I looked around at the views and decided that Washington was just trying to trick us, luring us back with its beauty. The trail wound along a glorious ridge, lined with blueberries and flowers and friendly marmots scurrying about. It was too nice. In my mind – bear with me, we have a lot of time to think on the trail – I likened it to having a baby. They say there’s some hormone that goes into your head after you have a baby that makes you forget how awfully painful and horrendous labor was, so you happily pop another one out. After watching a birth, this seems like a pretty darn powerful hormone. This week, I was convinced that Washington was doing its best to elicit whatever the parallel thru-hiking hormone is in our minds. People get hooked on thru-hiking, and it is because of days like Wednesday. The day is just too perfect and pristine, that you almost – almost! – forget about the horrid dry desert, and you’re fooled to do it again. That hormone seeps in there and you get all sorts of irrational. Ahhh, Washington, I see what you’re up to and you won’t fool me. I’m going home, and a professional day hiker I shall be. I caught up to Taylor who was discussing her nostalgia with two ladies out on the trail for the week, and I proudly explained my thru-hiker/birth forgetful hormone theory. I think they got it.
Wednesday afternoon as we meandered down a hillside Tay befriended, Henry, a sweet marmot. I told her she should get closer to get a good photo and two minutes later she leapt back with a yelp as Henry hissed at her from within his home. Poor Taylor.
Thursday took us across a lovely bridge and proved to be the hilliest day in a long time. When we ran into Scott Williamson a few weeks back, he told us that the last 250 miles of the trail were assuredly as difficult as the high Sierras, and while I would argue that the high Sierra was more challenging still, Thursday held in store for us quite an epic climb. We hiked straight up a mountain to swim in a stunning alpine lake and stare across a valley at… the switchbacks, which awaited us. It’s moments like this that I wish the PCT had sky bridges or ziplines so we needn’t lose all that elevation just to climb straight back up in the hot sun. Alas, five miles and 3000 feet we zig zagged down, to immediately come right back up. As I wound my way up listening to Lady Gaga on repeat, I pictured Taylor, a few switchbacks overhead, listening to Drake’s “make me so proud” song – one I have since learned she turns to in her most trying moments on the trail, so as to hear words of appraise and encouragement from Drake. I find this hilarious.
And then there was Friday, the 13th. It was quite the day. A few years ago, the trail around Glacier Peak was closed due to flooding that washed out the bridges and trails. Thru-hikers had to take a detour for years until in September of 2011 they reopened the trail, with new bridges and routes. Along one of these routes hikers have the option to take the old or the new trail. If you take the old trail, you save yourself a 4.8 mile detour, but you have to go along 2 miles of unmaintained trail and cross a river by way of log – not my forte. If you take the new trail, you go the long way, but you stay on lovely maintained trail and you cross a bridge! What better choice than to go for the log on Friday the 13th? Naturally, we opted for it.
In the morning Tay and I scouted the river bank to find the infamous log. After meandering up and down through the woods, we finally eyed a promising long that stretched completely over the water. Our friend, Seminole – an ultralight thru-hiker with the smallest pack in the world – lightly danced across it, but I promptly sat right down on my rear and shimmied across, inch by inch. Taylor followed in this fashion:
Ah ha! We had conquered the river and now it was just two quick miles along the old trail back to the PCT. The trail was in relatively good condition save for a couple enormous fallen trees which we had to crawl over or under. The experience definitely made you grateful for all the trail maintenance done by the PCTA. As we hopped and climbed our way through, we came at last to a huge rushing river with thick brush all around. Seminole was sitting in the middle of the trail when we arrived and looked up and said, “I got lost, so I sat down.” Ah, yes, best to wait for the experts! Tay crashed off into the woods in some unknown direction, while I referred to the maps I had thankfully downloaded before this section (our paper maps were also lost in our box). As I studied the map, I was confused why we were near such a huge river. Looking more closely, I at last found a tiny blue line representing this massive rushing glacial river. And then I saw the trail, going straight over it. “So… apparently we cross two rivers – didn’t see this one. And the trail resumes on the other side.” Once through the thick brush we found a trail of sorts winding through the rocky river side marked by cairns. As last they came to another log crossing. So maybe this was the crossing? Beneath the log silty water thrashed violently about and it was at least four times the width of the previous crossing. Once more, Seminole danced across, followed by Tay and I firmly straddling the tree and scooting forward on our bums the whole way. It is quite an arm work out, I must say!
We all made it safely to the other side, but again the trail was no where to be found. Once more I read the maps and confidently asserted it was parallel to the river, so naturally, it was just in front of us, up the very, very steep hillside that stood before us. Seminole asked me to confirm multiple times as we scrambled on all fours, digging our fingers into the moss wall so as not to fall backwards. “Yep! Just a ways more!” Somewhere in the distance I heard Taylor moaning and looked to see her completely slung over a gigantic tree, hollering,”I’m stuck!” Eventually we all made it to the top of the cliff where we grasped the ridge of the PCT with great relief. Seminole, who was anxious to get ahead to catch a bus, asked me which way was north, left or right, and for the final time I checked the map and realized my mistake all along: I had been reading the maps backwards. I began laughing as now it all made sense – the giant river and the steep hillside, etc., etc. No matter how I try I am the most directionally challenged person in the world. Lucky for me, the maps were very similar on both ends of the old trail – the PCT runs parallel to a river, so I had not lead us astray, but had they not been… goodness knows I would have led us straight back to Mexico, confident as ever. To give you an idea of what I was reading here is the section:
I’d say that was the luckiest Friday the 13th I have had in a while!
After our epic morning we had a slow and painful walk downhill into a valley. While I sometimes get excited for the ease of a gradual downhill, after 20 miles of it, I am quickly reminded how the relentless pounding often begins to feel like death. My feet throbbed, the day was outrageously hot and I hobbled into camp to endure a restless night of sleep. Although seemingly in better condition before bed, Taylor apparently felt the same – she was so restless that she completely spun around in her sleeping bag and slept with her head beside my smelly feet. She didn’t last long. Whether it was hopping about the old trail all morning on frail feet, we don’t know, but our bodies were clearly due for a treat yo’self day.
When dawn at last broke, we packed up camp faster than we ever have and hustled out to catch the shuttle to Stehekin – the most beautiful town in the world. If my flight home wasn’t out of Vancouver, I may have been inclined to just settle in here for a bit…. It is a tiny town aside a gorgeous aqua marine alpine lake nestled deep in a canyon. You can only get here by boat, plane, or foot – even all the cars in town have been ferried in. As the town attracts many tourists as well, our shuttle ride was quite humorous with sweet old people remarking on the horrible stench of us hikers. One elderly woman got on and sweetly exclaimed, “Boy they really picked up a bunch of refugees today.”
We have made it to our last resupply, where thanks to my mom Terrien and sweet sister, Melissa, we had a wonderful place to stay and delicious homemade black raspberry pop tarts to take with us on the trail! Stehekin has been absolutely beautiful and relaxing, and now after a delicious brekky in town, we’ll head north one last time so as to arrive in the sacred land of Canada by the sixth moon. I know. We can’t believe it either.