Riders on the Storm

I was asked two questions on the trail. The first was, “Where are you headed?” I answered with one word, “Canada,” in a voice that grew more confident the closer I got to the border. The follow up question could also be condensed into one word, “Why?”, though the asker was usually too polite to frame it so concisely. That was a tougher one for me to answer. Towards the end of the trail though, I had a lot of practice, and I answered something like; “I wanted to challenge myself and see if I succeed at something really difficult.” Which was true. And I succeeded.

A rare cloudy day in Northern California

But, that wasn’t the whole answer. I also wanted to see the country, the lakes, the mountains, the trees. When I stopped in Northern California, the unseen sights ahead encouraged me to continue; Crater Lake, Mt. Hood, Rainier, Jefferson, the Northern Cascades, the Columbia River, the California Border, and most of all that glorious clear cut separating America from Canada, marking the end of my journey.

Crescent Lake and Diamond Peak, Oregon

The steep climb out of Castella reminded me how hard the trail could be. My newly adopted Zen approach could only sustain me so far, especially in the heat of the Northern California summer. I found solace in company along the way, hikers who shared my pain and a trail angel who shared her food and water. After two days back on trail, I covered 50 miles in 28 hours into Etna, appropriately named for the Sicilian volcano, a hot place in the shadow of the looming Mt. Shasta. I arrived just in time to watch the second half of the World Cup Final, a victory for the Germans. Etna was small, but the perfect size for a through-hiker, with a couple restaurants, a grocery store, and an award-winning brewery; a place made more navigable by the loaner bikes provided free of charge by the local hostel.

Mount Shasta

The next stop was Seiad Valley, an even smaller place, a diner, grocery store, and post office huddled together in one low-slung building near the Klamath River. On the walk in, the trail turned into a dirt road and I passed a number of rural compounds with creepy, strung-up dolls and hand-drawn signs that showed two askew Xs. At first, I thought the asymmetry was a result of crude penmanship, but I later learned that these Xs constituted the seal of the “State of Jefferson,” a succession movement entertained by some of the locals. Here, I watched the thru-hiker Foxy attempt the famous pancake challenge. He made it halfway through the 5 pound stack.

Foxy struggling through his pancakes

I continued to hike north and finally reached the Californian Border. I perused the trail register, looking for the names of hikers before me, many of whom I knew. The next day, after the border crossing, a wave of depression hit me, and I struggled to hike into Ashland, now only 10 miles away. I tried to “Yogi,” or wrangle, a ride from two day hikers but they discerned my intention and accelerated to their nearby car. I sat in the dirt parking lot, despondent, ate Nutella and read Steinbeck’s The Pearl until a trail runner returned to his car and I was able to hitch with him into Ashland. He was a nice man and assured me that there was no shame in quitting now. I did not quit though.

The Oregon Border

In Ashland, my spirits were further bolstered by Snailtrainer, a 50 year old Englishman who fit the stereotype. He had a front tooth missing and a ribald sense of humor that often escaped detection due to his heavy use of the British vernacular. He carried the heaviest pack on trail, and extra equipment jangled off the back. Despite the added weight, he maintained a robust pace. I hiked with and near him for much of Oregon. On a particularly dreary stretch after the stunning Crater Lake, we reached a road and decided to hitch to a nearby resort that catered to RV campers. It proved to be a wise choice. We shared an east-coast caliber pizza and Snailtrainer was thrilled that the place served “jugs” of beer, as opposed to the standard English pint.

Snailtrainer

After Crater Lake, the trail passed by a string of lakes for about 60 miles, the most I’d seen since the High Sierras. During a rain storm, I saw a bald eagle swooping over the lower Rosary Lake. From here, the trail headed to and then snaked around the Three Sisters, a trio of volcanos that dominate the Central Oregon skyline. 1,000 miles after the Sierras it felt good to again be in an alpine zone, with its clear springs (I could see the source) and colorful wildflowers. I genuinely felt uplifted by the scenery. After scaling a steep lava field, I reached a high alpine zone and looked back to see the evening light strafing through a low cloud cover.  

Approach to South Sister

After the Sisters, I resupplied at Big Lake, an incredibly hospitable Christian Youth Camp. The trail skirted Mount Jefferson and then flanked Mount Hood, where I enjoyed a filling meal at the Timberline Lodge.For over 1,000 miles I had heard stories about the buffet at Timberline and, in one of those rare cases, reality met expectations.

Evening on the Three Sisters

 On the trail, any hiker’s main motivation, at some point, becomes the next resupply stop. Because it becomes a fixation, an object of obsession, I would start to build the next place up in my head. Upon my arrival, I would often discover that the rustic ski area tavern of my imagination had transformed into a gas station convenience store, the roadside diner into a small general store. Of course, I was too hungry to be disappointed, and it would be selfish to complain. One of the more disappointing stops, White Pass in Washington, only served fried food, and my friend Rocksteady ended up with food-poisoning. 

Hikers resupplying at Shelter Cove, Oregon

I hiked with Rocksteady and Crusher from Oregon through White Pass. On Mount Adams, in Washington, we reached an alpine zone after a long while spent traversing the low hills near the Columbia River Gorge (at least there were huckleberries). A hiker with a sunhat and a long stride passed me headed southbound, the legendary Scott Williamson, veteran of over 15 PCT thru-hikes.

The trail passing under the appropriately named Tunnel Falls in Northern Oregon

Soon after, it started to hail, but I dismissed it as a passing squall. In fact, throughout my whole hike it had rained hard one night. It had rained maybe six days out of the hundred I’d been on trail, and it didn't rain for long when it did. Here, the mountain gathered the clouds around and the clouds grew darker. The hail turned to hard rain and the trail became a stream.

On the flank of Mount Adams

 I put on my rain coat, caught up to Rocksteady and Crusher, and we shivered our way around the mountain, until our progress was stopped by a muddy torrent. I had ditched my trekking poles near Crater Lake, feeling they did not jibe with the Mountain Man aesthetic I was trying to cultivate, but now I had no extra balance point with which to help me maneuver across the river. After much searching, I was able to procure a large stick that another team had just used to navigate across the river and I crossed safely. Crusher, who has a mild form of Cerebral Palsy, was not so lucky and fell in at a particularly venomous stretch. We continued on, and made camp about two hours later. It was this day that I was especially grateful for company. To be cold, tired, wet, and alone is hard.

Rocksteady and Crusher cross the river

Washington, as this rainstorm proved, was rugged. In the same way that Oregon was flat, Washington was mountainous. The trail plunged down into creek beds and then quickly ran back up rocky escarpments. The vegetation was lush, the wildlife more abundant here than any other part of the trail. At night I slept with my food bag inside my tent to prevent the mice from chewing through the plastic bags and into my oatmeal and granola. I developed a healthy distaste for those creatures.

Goat Rocks, Washington

I stopped at Stehekin, an outpost off Lake Chelan, only accessible by boat or plane. The border stood only 80 miles away. I stocked up on baked goods and sprinted towards the finish line, smiling broadly when I reached the clear-cut and the monument. Mission accomplished. I ditched my ragged shoes in the trash at Manning Park, only to spend my time running through the streets of Vancouver and Seattle in flip-flops, my feet suffering worse than they had since my early days on the trail. My hike was over, but another journey was just beginning. 

The Canadian Border