I was in a hurry to get to highway 58 at Willamette Pass. My parents were coming up to take me into Bend, and the sooner I could get there, the more time I would have off trail. I was looking forward to clean clothes, a hot shower, some good meals, and seeing my mom and dad, whom I haven't seen now since the Sierras. So I hardly noticed the mosquito hordes as I got up and packed up camp.
I was camped at the junction of the PCT and a side trail leading to Maidu Lakes, which meant I was 43 miles from the highway. I started out at a fast pace, partially because I was anxious to get there and partially because of the mosquitoes. After a quick few hours I was starting to be affected by the bugs. The problem is that you can't get rid of them. You have a personal escort of anywhere from 10 to 30 at almost all times. After a few hours I start to lose it, inadvertently hiking faster and faster, swatting constantly, as if that might help.
As I reached Windigo Pass, I decided to take a break for lunch. There I met "One Step," who was also stopped for lunch. This is the second hiker named One Step I have met, so there was some confusion as I tried to tell him we had met somewhere before. As it turned out, he has hiked sections of the PCT before, but this year he started at the Oregon border. He is a retired equities analyst who rode the market in the early 90s, made bank, didn't fritter his money away, and cashed out before the current downturn. This allows him, in his early 50s, to hike about 500 miles every year.
I talked shop with One Step, who confirmed that Tuna Helper (the speed record guy I met near Lassen) is no longer going for a record due to snow. He also told me that at least one through hiker had left the trail because they couldn't stand the mosquitoes any more. He also noted that he was underwhelmed by Oregon at this point because you only get, he estimated, one view every 10 miles. That sounds about right to me, which is something that I have also been dissatisfied with.
After parting ways I headed up a 1200 foot climb to find myself at Cowhorn Mountain. I had reached one of those views that happen so infrequently. Fortunately the mosquitoes were tolerable up here because of patchy snow, so I stopped to take a picture looking south to Mt. Thielsen, a panorama with Cowhorn on the left, and a view down over Crescent Lake.
From here there are two potential routes going forward. The official PCT stays at this elevation, following the contours of the mountain and eventually coming down to Summit Lake to the northwest. Many hikers this year, however, switch to the Oregon Skyline Trail, which comes down off the mountain sooner and runs past Crescent Lake. They do so, even though it is not the PCT, to avoid snow, which is still pretty bad here as I would soon discover.
I opted to stay on the PCT, and a few miles on I hit a 6 mile stretch of snow. It began with an area of blow downs from last November's storm. I came out of the woods into a snow filled bowl at the base of snow filled mountains (pictured). I was faced with a unique challenge. Usually when I navigate through snow there are channels between the trees that are clear of obstructions. These areas are usually a good indication of an underlying trail. Sometimes there are also small metal diamonds nailed to trees at eye level or higher, which mark the route of the trail when there is snow. Here, however, snow covered everything and there was no indication of a trail amongst the downed trees. I looked up at the mountains and saw that they were shrouded in mist. Whatever I was going to do, it needed to be fast because there was nasty weather coming in! I headed onward, leaving the blow down section after half a mile and re-entering the woods, still in snow, and with no notion of where the trail might be.
I've perfected a technique I call "navigation by selective stupidity." See, I noticed that things always work out for stupid people. It's the intelligent people who, through overthinking the situation, always get themselves in more trouble. With that in mind, here's what I did:
First and foremost, everybody knows that when you look for something, it's in the last place you look (unless you continue to look after you've found it - in which case kudos to you for not giving in to society's norms). So, that said, don't look for the trail, as that would just take forever. Instead, pick a direction that you're fairly sure you didn't just come from and start walking. Along the way, I find it helps to mutter to yourself things like "Damnation! According to my map that (rock/tree/squirrel) should be on my left, not my right!" Be sure to change course often, either based on these mutterings or, if you prefer, based on whimsy. Also, pee frequently. I'm not sure this helps, but I had been drinking a lot of water, so it was definitely part of my plan.
Now, after a while you'll realize that nothing looks familiar at all. You will be tempted to panic, but don't! Of course nothing looks familiar - nothing looked familiar to begin with or else you wouldn't be in this mess - so seeing nothing familiar now is just a sign of progress. Still, if you're worried, try climbing that small rise. See, now you have views of the tops of trees, feel better? When you're done tree gazing, head downhill again as quickly as you can, skiing wildly. Saying "Weeeeee!" repeatedly won't make it any more fun or any less dangerous, but it sure cheers me up! At some point you'll notice the mist closing in and/or the approach of dusk. Whatever you do, just keep moving forward, deeper into the woods. I mean, these forests can't go on forever right? Finally, start to despair and feel sorry for yourself and, just as you hit your lowest, presto, the trail will appear before you. Congratulations, stupidity has won the day!
Alright, now before you all run out to try this technique, and before I get multiple lawsuits for the cost of search and rescue, let me add a couple of points. First of all, I really do most of those things when I'm lost in snowy sections (especially the muttering). I do them not as a navigation technique, but more just because it's fun and makes me feel like being off trail is a choice and not a serious situation that needs resolution. The truth is, when I get to snowy sections I am constantly making a mental map of the topography around me. Then, when the trail disappears under snow, I reconcile my mental map of what is behind me with the paper map of what should be ahead. I have a compass application on my phone, but I've never had to use it (which is good because I hardly know how to work this phone as it is). Instead, I rely on my internal compass which, after months in the wilderness, is pretty darn good. In this way I can pick a heading that should put me in the vicinity of the trail. Then I hike on, staying slightly uphill of where I think the trail is so that I have a better vantage. As I go I watch for cut logs, linear gaps in the vegetation, or blazes on the trees. When I get a strong gut feeling that I am near the trail, I start weaving back and forth, cutting 1/4 mile diagonals as I hike, figuring in this way I should eventually spot something.
So how good is my real technique? Well, I crossed a 4 mile stretch of snow, with absolutely no signs of the trail, through heavy woods that allowed no distant views, and - to top it all off - I was now in the middle of a cloud that had moved in and reduced visibility to 100 yards. I was just contemplating camping for the night because of the storm and poor visibility. There was a clear patch of ground straight ahead of me, and I headed for it to pitch my tent. When I got there, I realized that I had found the trail!
From there the trail was descending, and every 1/4 to 1/2 mile there were now clear sections of dirt. All I had to do now was scout ahead, looking for the most likely route, and backtrack to the last clear spot of trail if I got lost. It was slow work, but after another two miles I was clear of the snow. It was getting dark, and with a clear trail I picked up my pace to make up for lost time. I had hiked 35 miles and had about 8 left to go, and I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. And then it started to rain.
I set up my tent before the worst of the weather moved in, and spent the evening listening to rolling waves of thunder. My tent would light up as bright as day and I would count the time it took before the crash of thunder would break the silence. I figured the storm was 2 miles off, which just close enough to be spectacularly powerful, but still far enough for comfort. I fell asleep listening to the patter of rain on my tent fly and the grumble of thunder fading as it moved away to the north.
As morning broke I saw a new side of Oregon. The air was still thick with mist, and every breath was fresh and damp. There was a soothing quality to the air, like breathing in a humidifier, but somehow more pure. The trees were thinning, allowing sightlines of 50 yards or more down on the forest floor. Each tree stood tall and crisply defined, despite the mist. Golden rays of sun streaked in, creating lines of light and shadow, and lighting up the mist around each tree like a halo. The trees, bearded in a light green moss, seemed ancient, and each one was adorned with thousands of droplets of dew that sparkled in the morning light. The scenery was otherworldy, and the woods that I had taken for granted were transformed before my eyes into something surreal. It was as if I had stepped into the imaginings of JRR Tolkien, or was strolling through the landscape of a master painter whose colors and composition seem almost too perfect to be real. I stopped to take a picture and was swarmed by mosquitoes. Oh well, I did say almost.
I finished my hike and met my parents at the highway. They brought me into Bend, where we spent the day perusing art galleries, sampling local cuisine, and just generally enjoying the culture. What a treat! I enjoyed the restorative effect of meandering down sidewalks, drinking in the sights of civilization, and being in good company. Now, after a soak in the spa and a night in a bed, I am up early to write my blog and wait for breakfast. By midday I will be back on the trail. I am past the 1900 mile mark, so it is down to the final stretch. 750 miles to go!
