July 11th
When I first woke up at 1:00, it seemed like my tent was collapsing. I pushed and realized the tent was covered with snow. I banged from the inside, and it all slid off.
At 3:00, I did the same thing, but got out to investigate. There was about 5 inches on the ground.
At 4:00, I again banged from the inside, but this time I got an indoor shower. The snow was high enough that it blocked the ventilation paths. As a result, all my respiration in the cold humid air was collecting on the inside. Both the head and feet of my sleeping bag were wet from the damp walls pushing in under the weight of snow.
By 5:30, I had to make a decision: hunker down and hope the snow stops and melts or push through. I decided to push on. I put on my wet shoes over damp socks, folded my icy, wet tent and headed out. There was about eight inches of snow on the ground with more coming down.
Cutaway Pass was above 9,000 feet. I was camped at 7,800 feet. It was about 3 miles away. My biggest fears were getting lost and frostbite on my feet. Fortunately, the outline of the trail was discernible, especially towards the top. Oddly, a moose used a good section of the trail and his stride matched mine making the effort easier for a while.
I think because I kept moving, wriggled my toes, and the temperature never dropped much below freezing kept me safe.
By the time I reached the summit, I was winded. I was so happy that I had made it. I was pretty confident as I descended the other side that the snow would lessen the lower the elevation.
I spent the rest of the day breaking trail. In fact the snow did eventually turn to slush at the lowest elevation. I avoided slush puddles with intensity.
Towards the end of the day I had one more high pass to navigate. I was excited to finally see a pair of footprints! They must’ve hunkered down at the base of the pass. I sped along as best I could hoping to catch up.
Just before I reached my final spot for the day (Johnson Lake). I managed another clever wipe out. I was going down a steep slope. The trail was a mix of mud, snow, rocks, and puddles. To avoid a muddy slush puddle, I stepped on a rock at the very edge. Whoosh. Left leg goes screaming down hill, but my right leg stayed on trail in what used to be known as the hurdler’s stretch. Truth be told, I’m not sure I ever could do the hurdler’s stretch. But here I was in a wilderness area at 54 in form so perfect my high school track coach would be proud. Well, nothing major snapped or popped or stopped wotking, so, astonished, I carried on.
I set up my wet tent and put in my damp sleeping bag. Exhausted, I headed off to a miserable night’s sleep.
backpacking over the hill 