A Hiker, Bikers, and the Brady Bunch: Kindness on the Trail
Year's ago . . . well, 1981 to be precise . . . while walking the Washington PCT, we came across the grave marker of a long-time ranger with the following epitaph inscribed: "There are no strangers in the mountains, only friends you have not met." Dave Baugher's story, not far from site of this old grave marker, epitomizes that epitaph.
By Dave Baugher
"Chief, it was you!" Carol exclaimed as the Brady Bunch moved in on me from all sides, grinning with broad smiles. At that point, lying was useless, especially after drinking beers with the biker gang outside. "Yes, it was me," I openly admitted to the bit of trail magic provided at the Kracker Barrel Store in White Pass, Washington. Don't understand this situation? Let's go back to the story's beginning, five days before…
Mosquitoes were everywhere, miserable, to say the least. A series of stagnant ponds in assorted sizes and colors provided a perfect nursery for the insects. We hoofed it past these areas as fast as possible, trying to avoid the annoying biters. However, the buggers descended upon us every second we rested in a droning fog. When we finally decided to stop for the night, our first job was to start a small, smoky fire to provide some relief from the buzzing bastards as we set up camp. The smoke helped abate the pests. Yet dinner was a poor affair, and we called it a night, quickly ducking into our tents. In the fading light, with clouds of the forest vampires buzzing our tents, I heard something. What was that? Laughter and merriment?" Impossible, I must be hallucinating," I quietly reflected as my eyes slide shut for the night.
The following morning, awakening to the faint steel, blue-grey light, I thought about the trip. I was hiking the 250-mile section from the Oregon/Washington border at Cascade Locks to Snoqualmie Pass, Washington. For the first one hundred miles, close friends Mike and Patrick had joined me for the adventure until White Pass, where they would say goodbye and head back home. It was our sixth day since leaving Cascade Locks. Those first six days had been burdensome; we were plagued by clouds of mosquitoes and feet troubles, and Mike had a poorly fitting pack traumatizing his back.
With the morning sun glinting through the trees, I felt optimistic about the day. We were heading towards the Goat Rocks Wilderness; hopefully, the hordes of winged vampires would finally be left behind. We stretched, broke camp, and merrily headed down the now bug-free trail. Ahead was fresh water and a spot to prepare for the remainder of the day's hike. Breaking from the forest, a meadow beckoned us with filtered sunshine, verdant green grass, lush shrubbery, and patches of flowers.
Near the water was another group sitting off to the side in the cool morning light near a bank of trees. We said a merry "hello!" as we stopped to fill our water bottles. The group greeted us quietly and then got up and left. We counted six hikers, five women, and a single young man. They disappeared up the trail, and I thought, "Was that the group I heard last night? Could they have fun together with laughter and merriment in this mosquito hell? It couldn't be this troop. A happy group of hikers not affected by the buzzing misery?"
We knew today the trail had a consistent upwards grade for the first several miles, and it would be a morning grind to get to the top of the distant, looming ridge. So, as we got ourselves ready, Patrick exclaimed, standing up, "This will take some Guns N' Roses to get to the top this morning!" He fist-pumped as he put on his earbuds and took off. Mike and I shrugged and returned to the trail, pondering onwards.
Mike limped and lagged; soon, I was hiking upwards alone in silence. An hour later, the constant grade had me sweating freely, and rounding a bend, I spied the group of six lounging and laughing in the shade alongside the trail. I greeted the group. The young man, who introduced himself as 'Zane,' told me Patrick ran by them about 20 minutes ago. Zane commented as Patrick passed, "Wow, he's moving fast!" Patrick overheard him; he turned around and said, "The secret is Appetite for Destruction!" Then he turned back and kept going without missing a step.
Zane looked at me and asked, "What is Appetite for Destruction?" This brought chuckles from the group, and I introduced myself, "My name is Dave, but on the Pacific Crest Trail, I'm known as 'Chief' where are you guys heading?" The group's matriarch introduced herself as Carol. She said they would be camping at Walupt Lake tonight, and the family was on a five-night backpacking trip together. The other four girls were quiet as Carol and I chatted, with Zane sitting by his mother's side.
Finally, I bid the group farewell and happy trails as I prepared to continue. A quick glance down next to Carol's backpack, I noted an open bag with a cornucopia of medical vials inside. Heading onwards, I wondered what the story was with Carol and the family and whether I would ever hear their story or meet them again.
Continuing towards the conifer-covered looming ridge, I found Patrick lounging along a beautiful creek a few miles later, "How long have you been waiting?" I asked. Patrick replied, "about half an hour." He had really burned through the miles in a short amount of time. Guns N' Roses really seemed to work. Now he had to wait for the old guys to catch up. We chatted about the morning and life and waited for Mike to arrive.
After a bit of time, we heard feet coming along the trail. Looking up, we expected Mike, but it was the two younger girls in the group. They dropped their packs and cooled off downstream. Soon, the other two-woman showed up and joined the first pair. Their laughter and chatter drifted over the humming of the flowing water. We said hello again and asked where they were all. One explained she was the older of four sisters; she lived in Portland, and the others lived in North Carolina. Their mother had arranged for the group to come out and hike this area together. "Mom has been dealing with issues, and she wanted to get the family together," the older girl said," so we all flew out. I set up this hike for some quality family time. It's important for Mom," she inferred importance without explanation.
"Well, that's a special adventure your group has going; best of luck! " I said, eying Mike coming down the trail. I moved back up the creek to Patrick, and as soon as Mike had cooled his feet, watered, and snacked, we headed northwards. Zane and his mother had not appeared on the trail, but we said goodbye to the four women and wished them the finest experiences on their adventure. Once we were out of earshot, Patrick said if hiker groups had trail names, that family would be called the 'Brady Bunch.' We all chuckled at the joke and continued onwards.
There were few hikers seen on the trail in this section. However, the night before, we were to climb to the infamous 'Knifes Edge,' we were camped below Cispus Pass near the river for the night. An older hiker walked by our camp; he had no backpack, just a couple of water bottles bouncing on his hips and an ivory-colored shirt covering his narrow frame.
We would find out later that we were wrong about that gent. Passing without saying a word, he walked by with an easy gate, and after an hour, he returned, going in the other direction. "He must be camped back up the trail," we mused as the sun went down and the gentlemen disappeared into the evening light.
It was one of those weirdly beautiful, subalpine nights with a fat crescent moon floating about our camp and snowy peaks. The wild flare of the Milky Way banner streamed across the blue-black sky. Laying in my tent, I thought about the Brady Bunch, the lone hiker we saw that evening, and how the hike had gone thus far. Hopefully, the mosquitoes were behind us, and nothing but adventure ahead.
The next few days were magical. The mosquitoes abated like a prayer answered, and Goat Rocks welcomed us to a fantastic show of vistas, waterfalls, and green alpine fields covered with spring wildflowers' rainbows. It was colors, colors, colors. Greens, blues, and flaming yellow. The tinted ivory of bleach wood, the smoldering scarlet of mountain heather, and the sapphire glints of many small lakes dotted the bare vistas of grassy meadows. We spent hours taking pictures and marveling at the scenery. At one point. Mike said, "I was nearly moved to tears over the views and vistas." I quietly thought, 'That might have been the pain from your feet,' but I kept my mouth. And most of all, we were having a magical time.
Our last day together was Friday, July 15th, and we saw this mysterious hiker again. We stopped to chat and introduced ourselves. "Icebox, that's my trail name," he said, "if you see my white Honda in a parking lot, you will find a cooler filled with drinks near the front bumper." Asking about his hike, he informed us that he was day hiking the PCT, parking his car, walking 10-15 miles one way, then returning. The following day, walking the other direction. Then, he would move on to another access point. "Got to get going," he said and left, those water bottles bouncing on his hip.
"That's one crazy dude. Can you imagine day hiking the PCT out and back twenty to thirty miles every day while sleeping in your car?" I did have one more opportunity to speak with him again after Mike and Patrick returned home.
Our final camp was near the top of the White Pass Ski Resort. Cell service was excellent; we made phone calls, looked up the latest news, and made arrangements for tomorrow. Patrick spoke to his pregnant wife (my daughter Katherine), excited to get home as this was the last night of his trip. And Mike talked with Maureen, his friend who would be picking us up at the trailhead along Hwy 12 tomorrow morning.
With the sunrise, we packed and walked down the trail to the PCT trailhead next to Highway 12. Maureen was there in the parking lot waiting for us. I spied the dusty, white Honda, and yep, there tucked under the front fender was a styrafoam cooler filled with cool drinks. Cold beverages were shared, and pictures were taken. I got a piece of paper out of my pack and wrote a note to 'Icebox,' Thanking him for the trail magic and hoping to see him again, signed 'Chief.' Tucking the note under the windshield, I turned, and we packed into Maureen's car.
We drove one mile up the highway to the White Pass Condo complex, where a unit was reserved for our group for the next two nights. We make a quick stop at the Kracker Barrel store for recuperation supplies. Introducing ourselves to the clerk 'Barb,' she quickly explained the use of the washer and dryer for hikers.
The accommodations were perfect! Our boots came off, cold beers were shared, and stories were told to Maureen. It was a glorious afternoon. We sat on the deck and basked in the views.
Mike and Maureen were chatting away, and with Patrick in the shower, I decided to go and wash my dirty clothes. I was ready for another adventure by changing into my cleanest shirt and shorts. Walking from the condominium to the Kracker Barrel store, I thought about the past 7 days of hiking with Mike, Patrick, and all the folks we met along the trail. This had been a great first half of the trip for me. Still, from here onwards, I would be traveling alone for the remainder of the journey after everybody left. A zero-rest day would be fantastic, an entire day without hiking. But could I stay still that long? I mused within these thoughts as I entered the Kracker Barrel store.
Walking to the cooler, I grabbed a cold beer and walked up to the counter. The clerk, Barb, smiled and pointed me to the rear of the store, where the washing and drying machines were located. The laundry was tossed in, and a cleaning cycle started. "Hmm, what to do now?" I thought, "What a great time to enjoy a cold beer out in the sunshine!" I thought. "Can I give you my credit card and start a tab for me?" I asked, and Barb replied, "we do all the time," replying with a quick smile. So, I handed her my credit card and turned to head outside to enjoy some sunshine at the store picnic table.
Looking out at the highway, then further up the road, I spied them; it was The Brady Bunch walking down the highway in single file towards the Kracker Barrel. "Hey," I thought, "What a fantastic opportunity for some Trail Magic!" So, I ducked back inside the store and told Barb, "There is a family of 6, 5 women and one young man, coming down the road to the store. Whatever they purchase, I want you to put it on my tab, and please don't tell them it's me. " "No problem," said Barb with a wry smile and quick wink.
I ducked outside and circled clockwise around the store as the family came in through the front. I kept out of their sight as they entered the store. This was turning out to be a heck of a fun day! Sitting at the long sun-weathered table around the corner was a couple dressed in motorcycle leathers. Their beautiful, chromed bike gleamed in the afternoon sunshine next to them. "May I join you?" I asked, "Absolutely!" they chorused, and I rested my tired, dirty body on the bench across the table.
I introduced myself as "Chief," a PCT hiker taking a day off the trail. Joan and Ed presenting themselves said they were ahead of a group of other bikers, enjoying their day. The couple noted they were participating in a poker-run ride with their motorcycle club, and soon other riders would be showing up. Ed, looking at me, exclaimed, "A PCT hiker? You are f*****g crazy; being out alone in the woods!" Just then, the other motorcyclists roared up to the store, circled, and parked on the picnic table side of the building. The helmets came off, greetings were called out, and the folks moved in our direction.
Bigfoot was a hot topic, and indeed shortly, most agreed that I should be carrying a .45 caliber Desert Eagle for protection. I chuckled, observing other bikers quietly listening in on our conversation. Many in the group had a bigfoot story about someone they knew, encountering a sasquatch, or someone who knew someone. Beer and interesting conversation freely flowed.
Conversations expanded with every person giving their opinions about UFOs, Bigfoot, and my insanity of hiking without a gun. The vibe within this group made me feel I was with a family of friends, laughing and pointing out the world's craziness as they saw it. The experience was like a scene in a movie.
The conversation and beer began to buzz in my head. I felt crowded by so many boisterous people after quiet days on the trail, but who knows. So finally, I excused myself from the picnic table, saying I had to get my clothing out of the washing machine inside. "That's OK!" they chorused; we need to get going ourselves. Waving goodbye, I walked around to the front of the store and stepped inside the Kracker Barrel.
"Chief, it was you!" called Carol of the Brady Bunch, sitting at a table on the deli side of the store. Obviously, my stratagem had only succeeded exceptionally well. Blinking, I had forgotten entirely about the family while conversing with the bikers outside. "Shoot," I thought, "I'm caught." My attempt at anonymous trail magic has just been discovered.
In the background, the biker troop roared off down the highway. I was past trying to lie, so admitting my responsibility in paying for the snacks and sodas was acknowledged. To deny my act of kindness with the beer buzzing in my head was a useless measure. So, I just smiled and said, "yes."
Thanks, were profusely given, and they asked me questions about my journey and where were Patrick and Mike. Answering their questions was fun, but they kept asking for an explanation about why I had paid for the drinks and snacks. Explaining trail magic can sometimes be challenging, but I told them some stories about folks helping me on the Pacific Crest Trail. Some individuals give anonymously, and others with a generous smile only a trail angel can give somebody.
With the most enormous grin, they all smiled, and Carol said, "You are family now, and thank you for making the end of our trip something special. We will reminisce and talk about this adventure for the rest of our lives."
I choked up a bit, said "Thanks," and explained my laundry situation and the poor state of personal sanitation. I needed to get back to Mike and Patrick. I bid them farewell and made my way to the back of the store for my laundry. Returning to the condominium, I told my group the story about the Bikers and Brady Bunch and then jumped right into the empty shower. Nothing has ever felt so good. When finished, we made plans for the evening and the following day.
Making the most of my day at White Pass, I showered, repacked, and mended body and soul. I mused over the past days, especially the hiker Icebox, bikers, and the Brady Bunch. "What were their stories?" I wondered to myself.
The Brady Bunch, all coming out for a hike with their Mom, who sported a bag full of medicines. "Was she OK, sick? Would this be their last trip together?" I speculated. 'What would be his story?' Icebox, hiking thirty miles a day, leaving drinks for the hikers but not talking about himself. And the bikers' infectious enthusiasm, their incredulity to my endeavor endearing – the amazing conversations about hiking from Mexico to sitting at a picnic table next to the Kracker Barrel at White Pass.
I returned to the trail early on Monday morning. Patrick, Mike, and Maureen were gone, the bikers and the Brady Bunch were never seen again. Walking down the highway away from the Kracker Barrel, I was alone, lost in my thoughts. Icebox? I came across him again on the trail just a day later near Chinook Pass. We greeted each other, and he told me where his car was in the parking lot five miles ahead, with that cooler near the front bumper.
I gave him my trail card and invited him to give me a call when he got near my home near Ebbetts Pass, in CA. He gave me a sad smile and said he would never make it but thanked me anyway. I inquired about his family and friends; "What did they think about him hiking the trail this way?" Icebox looked off in the distance and replied quietly, "They probably don't even know I'm alive, and they did; they don't care," with a despondent smile. He said goodbye, turned, and walked away.
I watched him disappear down the dusty trail, those water bottles dancing off his hips, and myself rooted to the spot. I've learned that friends are like family, and friends can be just like family. However, looking at his ivory shirt disappearing around a bend on the trail, I've never been faced with the conception of no friends and no family.
The past days filtered through my mind as I turned and hiked northwards. Friends like Patrick, Mike, and my family are back at home. New friends like Joan, Ed, Bob, and the bikers in a chance meeting at a picnic bench with their motorcycles. New family like the Brady Bunch, gathering to share some special time together. My life is remarkable; every day comes with new revelations and friends.
At Chinook Pass, I found the car and enjoyed a cool drink from the ice chest with my lunch. Looking at the tourists walking around the parking lot; families in RVs, friends in cars, couples looking at the vistas, and everybody having a wonderful time, judging by the smiles. Considering Icebox's dusty vehicle next to me, I pulled out a scrap of paper. I wrote a message and left it under the wiper blade. Then returned to the trail, marching northwards alone. The message?
"No man is a failure who has friends, and I'm your friend. Please visit or call anytime – you have my card." Chief.
