#rock pass

[pcttrailsidereader]

The image of Mt. Hood and Paradise Park highlighting alpen glow was taken by James Parsons.

The incredible Rock Pass in the North Cascades by Andy Porter. And the final one of this set was taken by Benjamin Newkirk . . . an amazing winter shot of Rae Lakes.

[pcttrailsidereader]

Andy Porter deserves the credit for this amazing photo of the north side of Rock Pass, the last major hurdle before arriving in Canada. The PCT zig-zags down and the immediately back up to Woody Pass.

I look at this slope and think just how terrifying this pass would be if it were covered in snow. I visualize and very intimidating cornice at the top. Fortunately for me, I walked this in August in very similar conditions. Phew.

[pcttrailsidereader]

Christmas Eve

Howard Shapiro

I ventured out recently to one of my favorite sections of the Pacific Crest Trail. This is where the trail takes off from Harts Pass in northwest Washington and leads to the Canadian border and the northern terminus of the PCT. This being a very unusual year, I  initially didn’t expect to see many people much less thru hikers because in these COVID times the trail has been essentially ‘closed’. 

Prior to my hike I spoke with a ranger in Twisp (Washington) about what my plan was and casually mentioned that I didn’t expect to see many thru hikers or many other hikers for that matter. "Oh no!”, she said. “We are seeing more people than ever on the trails.” I was somewhat surprised. Given these odd times of staying close to home being outside is a logical refuge from the shackles of COVID-19. As I thought about it her information made so much sense. 

With my friend Dick Simpson we made our way north from Harts Pass only to discover just how many thru hikers really were out there. This being a very unusual year when the border is closed people can touch the border but not cross it. Meaning a yo-yo back to Harts Pass and exiting the trail after many long months. 

2020 has been an odd year in more ways than one. From a PCT perspective the southern sections in the San Bernadino and San Rafael mountains filled with late season snows making the way north unusually cold and challenging. The Sierras, on the other hand were much less challenging to navigate compared to the previous several years. 

Finding so many thru hikers on the trail  in 2020 is a topic for some future post as that fact alone is intriguing if not controversial. Nevertheless, seeing these men and women realizing their dream, I couldn’t help but think about my own experience just over a year ago. For me there was such a mix of feelings as I went to sleep knowing that the next day would be the culmination of many days, nights, and miles. The question of what it meant to be at this place and time. In the words of a Talking Heads song, “...how did I get here?” came to mind. I wondered, felt a rush of feelings, and felt exceedingly grateful to have gotten to this place, walking the ‘last’ mile. 

As Dick and I were passed by a string of hikers making the final push to the border or finding their way back to Harts Pass we offered our congratulations. One fellow who walked near our camp below Rock Pass on his way to the border the very next day had the noticeable strength of trail legs and trail enthusiasm as he rushed past us. We quickly blurted out our congratulations,  wishes for his safe travels north and asked how he felt. His quick reply was, “It’s Christmas Eve!” He was so right.  

[pcttrailsidereader]

The PCT in the north is empty now.  The building snow absorbs any noise that the wind may make and the long dark nights reinforce the penetrating cold and wet.  It will be months before hikers return to the Pasayten.

Tyson Fisher has captured some of the moods of the Pasayten. Although the top photo, Methow Pass (6600’), and the second photo (below), Rock Pass (6491’), are beautiful scenes, you can imagine wearing all of your clothes and still being cold in the damp air and piercing wind. Take it a step further and imagine desperately scanning this hostile landscape for a sheltered camping spot as the sun wanes and temperature begins to drop further.

I’m glad to be home in my warm and pleasant bed for the winter.

[i8seattle]

The Northern End of the Pacific Crest Trail

The Northern End of the Pacific Crest Trail

The Pacific Crest Trail is a 2,400 mile long foot trail stretching from the US border with Mexico through California, Oregon and Washington State to Canada.

Pacific Crest Trail, Pasayten Wilderness

Powder and Shull Mountains, from the Pacific Crest Trail, Pasayten Wilderness

The northern most part of the PCT follows the Cascade Crest crossing Rock Pass, Woody Pass and then making a long gradual…

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[pcttrailsidereader]

Summer on the PCT north of Rainy Pass can be very brief.  The long, dry summers in the Sierra are very different from that experience in the North Cascades.  It is easy for hikers who have crested the high passes of the Sierra to underestimate the much lower passes in Washington and the severe weather that can last for days any month of the year.

Once again, Tyson Fisher has captured some of the moods of the Pasayten. Although the top photo, Methow Pass (6600'), and the second photo, Rock Pass (6491'), are beautiful scenes, you can imagine wearing all of your clothes and still being cold in the damp air and penetrating wind. Take it a step further and imagine desperately scanning this hostile landscape for a sheltered camping spot as the sun wanes and temperature begins to drop further.

Now return to the comforts of your armchair and appreciate that you are viewing this on your computer.

[pcttrailsidereader]

Attitude and Layers (Part 2)

Editor's Note: For those of you reading this post prior to reading Part 1, posted on December 14th, I encourage you read them in order.  It is a story well told.  I can almost feel the cold, the joy, the relief,

By Natalie 'Dances with Lizards' Fisher

44 miles to go. Wake up to fog.  White on white.  Takes us most of the day to go four miles.  Pulling out the GPS often.  Having to trust technology.  Crossing meadows or open areas with no sign of a trail.  The usual dip is covered by a drift.  When it gets too slick and steep, we know we’re above it.  We don’t like to descend because gaining any elevation is such hard work.  Maps, compass, check the GPS, look for blazes, look for the line through the mist.

We get to a low point where the trail hits a jeep road.  2 miles to Hart’s Pass.  The next section of trail looks just as, if not more, steep and sketchy as what we just came through.  We take the road.  One of the only times I actually opt for road rather than trail.  Even though it’s easier, walking a road has never been fun, and is still not fun.

38 miles out.  Hart’s Pass.  Our last exit point.  My biggest mental struggle. Getting this far today was brutal. If there had been a warm car, with warm people in it, I don’t think I would’ve had the fortitude to continue.  As luck would have it, there is just a bleak campsite.  Ranger cabin boarded up for the winter.  An outhouse and a couple picnic tables all covered in snow.

Not much discussion.  Make a hot drink.  Cook some food.  All Brr has to say is: ‘If we don’t continue, I’ll regret it.”

Final push.  This is our moment.

We continue.

34 miles out.  On top of another snow covered mountain.  I open up the tent in the morning (for the difficult process of putting trash bags on my feet so I can struggle outside into the cold to pee) and the first words out of my mouth are ‘Oh my God.’

‘What is it?’

‘Look outside!’  The world is stunning.  Bright sun.  Blue sky.  In a small tent on the mountaintops. Surrounded by stoic snow covered ridges and peaks. This is why we’re still out here.

22 miles out.  We actually made 12 miles today!  There’s a celebration.  I have to do a mental shift from “we’ll get as far as we can” to “we’re going to make it!” I can finally let myself believe that I’ll get there.

Canada is now our nearest out.

We are going to make it.

16 miles out.   6 miles today.

I worked for every inch of these six miles.  All day and most of the night.  For six miles.

Up to Rock Pass, down the other side, up to Woody Pass.  We keep switching who breaks trail throughout the day.

We took a break at what we thought was the last switchback up.  False summit.  Got dark.  Fog rolled in again.  Took a turn down a wrong trail that was unsigned.  We knew we were on a trail.  We could see the line. The going was easy, but the ridge was on the wrong side.  Kept waiting for a switchback to turn us the right way.  GPS again.  Turn around.

Wind whipping up.  Can’t tell if it’s snowing more or just blowing everything around.  Finally at the top of the real pass.  Round the corner.  Ridge is on the right side.  Snow drifts are deep.  Postholing up to knees or hips with snowshoes on.  Brr’s foot has a bruise from the snowshoes.  He switches to spikes and we keep rolling.

Work for every step.

Send a prayer to Mother Nature.  Please give us a break. 

The wind dies.

No more ice blowing in my eyes.  I can see the line of the trail.  We slowly follow it across huge drifts. Exhausted.  Getting frustrated with everything.  Stop for a break, but don’t want to deal with the wind chill, so we don’t cook, and just keep moving.

Finally to the top of Lakeview Ridge.  Above 7,000 ft.  Everything is downhill from here.  But I can’t go on.  We cook and try to see if we can get some more energy.  But we’re done for the night.  We’re supposed to get out tomorrow.  We’ve already pushed the rendezvous back one day.  But 16 miles might be impossible.

Must sleep.  Hope that tomorrow is a better day.

14 miles out.  We hit the valley.  Took all morning to traverse the ridge, descend the Devil’s Staircase and get down to Hopkins Pass.

We can do this.  It’s just 6 more miles to the border.  Make spam burritos one last time (my favorite trail food: spam, Idaho potato mix, corn chowder, and cheez-its!), out of tortillas for this one.  Ready to go.  The snow is light on this stretch of trail, but I keep the snowshoes on to keep from slipping.

3.5 miles to the border.  Castle Pass.  The world is black and white today.  Cloud covered sky, trees so dark green they look black.  Snow covered world.  A raven flies overhead.  We take that as a good omen.  We’re flying today.  Nothing can stop us now.  The only question is if we can get to the border with a little daylight left?

November 18.  5:30 pm.  PCT mile 2660.  We hit the border.

This monument that I’ve been waiting to see for seven months is right before me.

Not a dream anymore.

I’ve had this image in my head of arriving at the monument.  What I would do. What my end picture might be like. How we imagine it, is never how it turns out. It turns out the way it was going to happen all along.

It turns out better than I imagine.

Dark.  Victory yells.  Running and jumping around like crazy.  Disbelief.

I pop open a bottle of champagne that I’ve carried for 80 miles.  I can now admit to carrying it.  (Otherwise that would have been a bottle quietly drunk in a corner). After all that long journey, I absolutely brought a bottle of champagne along for the last lap.

One more hiker mocha with the last of our coffee and instant breakfast mix.  Sitting staring at the monument.  This is really the end.

We got each other to the end.

Everything is going to happen fast after this.

8 miles to get out.  We have people waiting for us.  And we don’t want to camp in the broken tent on cold snow another night.

It starts to snow giant flakes.

Haul it.

8 miles to let it settle in that we’re getting out.  That we’ve actually accomplished the goal.  That I have to go do something other than walk now.

8 miles to laugh about all the moments.  Favorite, worst, most epic, hardest, weirdest, most random.

4 miles out.  We just made it up one more pass.  To the end it is not easy.  Mother Nature never lets it be easy.

Just a little further to our waiting family.  

11:30 pm.  Manning Park.

Anticipation as we arrive at the road.  Then the parking lot.  Then the resort.  Door is locked.  A security guard pulls up right as we’re taking off our packs.  ’They were just looking for you.  Weren’t sure if you were gonna make it out tonight.’

This is it.

In to warmth.  In to waiting arms.  In to a shower and a bed.

In to whatever happens next.

Editor's Note:  On January 3, 2013, I will be posting yet another story that focuses on snow and survival but with a different twist . . . snow in the Lagunas just a few days north of the Mexican border in April!