August 26, 2018. Stealth camp before cedar Creek to stealth camp before Yellow Bank.
I got up early because low tide was around 7:30. The first part of my morning was easy hiking on firm sand. It was overcast with de minimis drizzle.
After the easy hiking, I rounded one headland and fortunately hit another lengthy sand beach leading up to the Norwegian Memorial and the adjacent campsite. The Prince Arthur of Norway crashed on the rocks nearby in 1903 and a monument was erected in honor. There were some appropriate mementos at the base of the memorial (flags for the US and Norway) and inappropriate (a shoe insert).
I could’ve stayed at this campsite, but it was still morning and high tide would not happen until after 1:00. However, designated campsites after Norwegian required a reservation. I opted to get close to the first restricted site (Yellow Banks), leaving just six miles of beach before reaching the trail’s end at Cape Alava tomorrow.
Based on this decision, I had to do some rock scrambling. Along the way I found an amazing variety and volume of waste on the beach. Fishing nets, flotation devices, cable protectors, rusty barrels. The most depressing was the sheer volume of plastic water bottles. Worse, so many of them were half full. Terrible.
Fortunately, no head was attached.I was shocked by the large amount of netting that had washed up.Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with an explanation.OK. So just once in college I did experiment with Happy Time Assortment.No comment.This headless skeleton appeared to from a sea lion.
I found a cove that seemed very remote based on the amount of material washed up. It had little beach and a lot of driftwood. Since high tide would be in soon, I opted to get up high and wait for the tide to recede. I found a good spot and even managed a short nap.
Moving again, I soon approached Yellow Banks. Before it, there was a well-used campsite that I grabbed. I had a late dinner and watched the horizon, hoping for a repeat of last night’s show. Unfortunately, the sky remained gray. As this was my last night, I reflected a bit but did not get sentimental. It was time to finish.
This decoration marked the entrance to my camping spot.Looking up the cove, I could barely see the Yellow Banks.
August 22, 2018. Boulder Creek Campground to Deer Lake
I was feeling my age when I woke up. Thankfully, I only had a 16 mile day scheduled. I’m not a big hot spring guy, but today felt like an exception.
Sunrise through the woods.
I hiked down to the hot springs. There were about seven. They ranged from shallow foot-soakers to large group- soakers. I chose a moderate sized one. Honestly, it stunk like sulfur and had an inch of mucky material on the bottom which swirled around at the slightest agitation. I lowered my feet in first. After liking the hot water, I sat down. Ten minutes was enough for me. I got out, rinsed off, and left.
Hot spring green slime…Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. John Candy on the plane: “These dogs are barking!”
Coincidentally, I ran in to Not Guilty who had also been camping at the same campground. He was just waking up so we chatted briefly before I took off.
While level in the early going, the “easy” day I was expecting vanished once I started uphill for Appleton Pass. The trail was rocky and steep. There were a few beautiful streams along the way and plentiful huckleberries. However, the switchbacks towards the top were surprisingly hard.
This flower grows only on the banks of cold streams. It looks almost like an orchid.
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Tons of huckleberries.
I snacked at the peak and descended down a similarly steep trail. My knees protested, reminding me of their sacrifice yesterday.
Towards the bottom, it leveled out and had some gorgeous streams.
To make up for the down hill, I naturally had to go up along the Sol Duc River. Before getting on the ridgeline to hike the High Divide Trail, I joined about eight other people to get water at Heart Lake. An otherwise unremarkable lake, from above it is perfectly named.
Heart Lake
Once on the High Divide Trail, it was like hiker turnpike. I passed couples, families, groups of college students, you name it. Campsites are strictly controlled in this highly popular seven Lakes Basin. Naturally, I passed a couple camped illegally on the ridge. Further, they were throwing food to some bird or animal. How I wished I had some tuna or peanut butter I could accidentally drop on their tent.
Despite the smoke, I loved the views down in to some of the Seven Lake Basin. I was naturally drawn to the sardonically named Lake Number 8. As the afternoon turned to evening, the crowds evaporated and I enjoyed the ridge walking.
At a critical juncture, I switched to another trail and descended for a good 20 minutes. I then encountered a couple about my age. The wife had braces on both legs but seemed okay. The husband had a huge pack and seemed to creak and groan with every uphill step. I was immediately concerned given the hour, their condition, and the distance they had yet to cover. I asked whether they needed water or electrolytes or food. They said they were ok, but for the next couple days I couldn’t help but wonder how they fared.
Just as the sun was starting to get behind the highest western peaks, I finally dropped down to Deer Lake, my designated campsite. I had heard this area was bear-heavy and it lived up to that reputation.
The first one was a large bear eating it’s way uphill. At first, it looked like my trail would lead me on a collision course. Fortunately, that was not true. I kept talking as I circled 50 or 60 feet above him with thick trees between us.
Next, there was a smaller black bear downhill. I had to talk for about 5 minutes before it looked up from its huckleberries. It gave me an annoyed look.
I was getting nervous as it got darker. I saw my third bear. This one had a gray muzzle like it was old. Again, I compared poorly to huckleberries and it barely acknowledged my existence.
Still on alert, I nonetheless drew a pretty firm conclusion that the multitude of berries greatly outweighed any interest I might generate. Glad to reach Deer Lake, I was eager to eat and get a campsite before total darkness.
At first, the only place I could find open was next to the toilet. Between the flies, smell, and door banging all night, I would rather stealth camp. Fortunately, and again I am not making this up, there was a llama camp. Miraculously, there were no llamas and I had a great, quiet campsite.
After eating my dinner up at the main cluster of campsites, I put my canister about 200 feet from my tent and fell into a deep, relieved sleep. That was the toughest 16 miles I’ve hiked in a long time.
August 21, 2018 Roaring Winds campsite to Boulder Creek Campground
I woke up early knowing this was going to be a tough 27 mile day. I would start above treeline and end up in semi-rainforest. A gross drop in elevation from 6,700 feet above sea level to 360 feet above sea level. I took a moment to thank my knee cartilage for years of dedicated service and bid a fond farewell.
It was smoky still. The sun crept higher looking like a shaded spotlight.
My mandated bear canister took up the top third of my pack.
I was well above tree line for most of the morning, but the tough, beautiful, sparse plants provided plenty of interest.
I could not tell whether this was two plants ( orange pine in a white cushion) or one plantAgain, I could not tell if these were two different plants or one.
These toughies appeared to be growing only in rock and crushed rock.
I was also graced with the presence of birds.
Have I ever mentioned marmots? My morning was marmot heavy.
This lone marmot appeared to be by himself. He called out a warning, but I saw no others.
A bit before noon, I reached the Hurricane Hill Visitors Center.
I feared it would be a tourist zoo as this is the primary driving destination in the park, normally offering gorgeous views after an easy drive. Perversely, the smoke worked in my favor as the huge parking was only 10% full.
When I went inside to the top of two layers, I was immediately able to complete some backpacker chores: find electrical outlet, water, and properly dispose of garbage. While charging, I casually reviewed some exhibits.
Then, I moved over to what seemed the nerve center of the building: Information. When I got to the counter, a gray-haired, uniformed park ranger asked how she could help. I asked “Are there any closures?” (My permit was issued over a week prior and between construction, fires, and, I’m not making this up, Goat Relocation, I knew there was a possibility a portion of my permitted route might be closed.) The blank look in her eyes made it clear I was in for some fun.
“What closures?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. I am backpacking and just wanted to see if there are any road or trail closures I should know about.”
“Oh. If you’re backpacking you need to get a permit. They will know about any closures. ”
“Sorry, I already have a permit issued several days ago, but I just wanted to see if anything has closed recently.”
“You’ll have to talk to the permit people downstairs. We have no information on closures.”
Involuntarily, I stepped back and looked at the sign to make sure it hadn’t said “No Information. ”
Honestly, I tried very hard to ask politely “What information do you have.”
She curtly replied that they help visitors learn about park programs and nearby day hikes they could take. About to ask her what she would do if a day hike route were closed, I thought better of it and left, thanking her for time. I felt empty, without closure.
The best part, though, was when I went downstairs, to the holy land of closure information. It was a gift shop and snack bar! Torn, I couldn’t guess whether trail closure information would most likely come from the fry cook or the lady selling stuffed animals.
I chose the snack booth. I ordered the fish and chips: three pieces of fish and fries for $13. When I got the order, it was two pieces of fish. I asked the person if they were having a two-for-three special. She said “No, its regular price.”
After about a half hour, I had enough and got going. I had a fairly steep downhill, but first I had to go up the popular Hurricane Hill trail. There were many helpful signs explaining the two different trail closures coming up in the next few days.
It was hazy and hot on the open hillside. I opened up my umbrella to create shade. I got a few smirks, but it kept the sun off and let the small breeze through.
A faint trail leads over the smoky edge.
Eventually, I began my descent. Over the next several hours I walked down from above tree-line to subalpine to grassland, dry ponderosa to rainforest. Early on, it was incredibly steep and I nearly wiped out as I tripped and my top-heavy pack wanted to carry me down.
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No, I do not have tiny hands! The most covering this tree was deep, reminiscent of a shag carpet from the 70s.
Around 5:00 I reached the bottom. The ONP was in the midst of major renovations, having removed a hydroelectric dam and replacing the roofing on the nearby ranger station. As a result, a major roadway was closed to vehicle traffic. After so many perilous hours on narrow shoulders of busy highways, strolling along a wide paved Avenue through the trees was a beautiful change.
I passed two couples. One was on bike and the others hiked. Both couples were returning from the Olympic Hot Springs.
I had a gradual nine mile, 1800 foot elevation gain ahead of me. My knees were sore, but it was simply a matter of grinding out the miles. I did stop to look at the remnants of the dam.
The concrete on the left was part of the removed dam.
I ate dinner as I walked. Finally, about two miles before the hot springs / campsite, the paved road ended and turned to trail. It was close to dark so I got water and took out my headlamp. I’m not a fan of night hiking, so I was walking as fast as I could. Just as it was getting to the point where I couldn’t see 10 feet in front of me, I reached the campground. It was huge. A few years back, vehicles could drive all the way to the hot springs and thus the campground was large.
I hung my food, pitched my tent, and put my creaky bones and sore muscles down to sleep. Just as I was dozing off, a group of female hikers walked past with their headlamps blazing, returning from the springs to their campsite. Finally, after they got their food hung, the campsite was dead still and quiet. At last, my eyes found closure.
I was getting a big resupply here, including a bear canister. I’ve never used one before, but they are required in some part of the Olympic National Park, notably the coast. The savage beast causing the requirement for bear canisters? raccoons. In case you don’t know, a bear canister is a round plastic jar with a screw on lid. It is too big for a bear to get its jaws around and the roundness prevents their claws from digging in. Also, it supposedly seals in odors. Who knew, it is effective against raccoons, too.
Backpackers hate canisters. They are heavy and take up a fixed volume. Instead, food bags that are light, roll up, and can be hung are preferred.
I tried to do my usual of museum-then-library. However, I soon realized this is a major tourist town. First, cafes and bistros were not going to open until 10 am. The museum would not open until 11:00. So, I got a good walking tour in and went to the library. It was one of the Carnegie-funded libraries, busy, and beautiful.
Port Townsend started out life in a very promising manner. In a nutshell, it was to be the primary port in Washington. The initial wealth resulted in beautiful homes and buildings being built in the late 19th century. Subsequent hard times (i.e., depression and Seattle’s rise as a commercial center) caused a big outflow of people. However, once the Coast Guard established a base nearby, the population stabilized. As the museum docent described it, “hippies” discovered the place and saved it in a certain sense. The town never went through the phase where the old houses and buildings were torn down. So, when yuppies found beautiful Victorian homes and charming old buildings, the place took off. It is touristy (I paid $14 for a simple Reuben sandwich) but it is worth it. I must say I thought the museum charged way too much for such a small display, but the old jail was interesting.
The historical fire bell
I loved the whitened teeth on this architectural detail.
I did see a clutch of PNT hikers outside the Safeway store. They had some plan to rent a taxi and get near the trail. Only one of them offered a name (Nick Berg) and one of them was from Staples MN. It was nice to see their enthusiasm for the finish. Not Guilty was the last to join the group and he was also heading out that night.
Lastly, a steady ocean breeze from the west was clearing up the air. I could see across the water to other land forms and the sunsets and sunrises were blander with less red / orange coloring. My motel looked at the harbor and I could see the fishing boats come in and unload their catch.
Note: both of my loyal blog readers know I love signs. I was ecstatic to find this one. In the old days there used to be something called common sense. Further, a detailed asterisk was not needed.
I always carry a little extra duct tape in the summer.
I also got a glimpse of future me. He went through a 10 minute battle royale bobbing in and out, but sleep won.
August 14, 2018 Anacortes Motel to motel in Oak Harbor
I tried sleeping in a little bit, but it just did not work. I showered and took advantage of the continental breakfast. Most of the time the motels offer a continental breakfast and they often include hard-boiled eggs which are a great way to start the day.
My first big task was to get my wilderness permit. PNT hikers can call in and work out a permit with a forest service employee. This is such a relief from having to trudge into a forest service office. I was disadvantaged because my Olympic map was on my phone. I had a pretty clear route planned, but this forest service guy and I had a miscommunication. He started with me going way south, suddenly lurching far north and then doing a 27 mile ridge-hike. I wish I had a full size map in front of me when we talked.
He also had me going from Forks to Mosquito Creek in one day, an almost 30 mile route dependent upon tides. He offered several good pointers, so he was competent. It is just some of the legs of my permit made no sense.
Once that was done, I headed out around 10:00. I mailed the paycheck I had found and went to find the trail. Anacortes has a huge forested park. The trail runs through it. As an urban park, it was mostly well marked and exquisitely maintained. However, the PNT route soon felt like I was playing some Keno board (trail 210 for 1/4 mile to 212 then 248 then 10, etc.)
This owl outside Anacortes was very alert in the daytime.
Eventually it spilled out on to some busy roads with an old time grocery store (Lake Erie Store). Then there was a confusing juncture. As I sat by the side of the road puzzling with my maps, a car pulled up asking if I was a PNT hiker. He was wearing a PCT hat. The gentleman was planning on hiking the PCT next year, but he was excited now. We talked gear for a little bit, his training, and some local information that helped me. His name was Larry and I got the feeling he’ll do just fine on his PCT hike.
An old miner’s tunnel.This log cabin was unique in that the logs were cut in half lengthwise. It reduced the insulating power, but instantly created flat interior walls.
I went on another trail through woods and once again got ejected out on to busy road. I walked along Highway 20 for some time. The scariest part was going over Deception Bridge, which is actually two bridges. The tidal changes are powerful as they get channeled through a small space, creating whirlpools and waves. Looking down to the swirling current 180 feet below, I was feeling a bit queasy. While it was unnerving enough to have the 2 lanes of Highway 20 right there on the bridge next to a narrow pedestrian bridge, I was especially surprised with the number of tourists who were standing in groups on the narrow walkway. I had to sneak by and around and hated looking down from such a height.
After the bridge, the pattern of get-on-a-trail-then-pop-out-on-a-highway repeated. This last time, I noticed a bus stop on a corner with a guy standing there. I went over to see the route and schedule. Sure enough, a bus would some along and drop me off in downtown Oak Harbor. I took the mass transit.
We went past the entrance to the Naval Air base and through most of the town. I got off and had to walk back a bit to get to a motel closer to the trail and food. It all worked out though my hips have really started to hurt from so much pavement walking. For a welcome change, I had greek food for dinner and then watched TV until falling asleep.
I did leave early, but somehow I managed to wake up Not Guilty. I said good-bye and we thought we’d meet in the next town (7 miles) for breakfast.
There was a timber harvest going on so there were some temporary trail closures that got me confused at times. Still, I made good time while the sun rose through the smoke filled air.
How would you like to wake up to this crawling across you?I loved how the most covered the dead branches.This boulder, I believe it might be classified as an erratic, was huge.
I got my first glimpse of Puget Sound, but a glimpse was all given the haze. This would be a spectacular trail on a clear day. At the bottom of the trail, there was a carved stone marker related to the PNT. All the words were spelled correctly. However, the math did catch my eye, not adding up to even 1,100 miles when the trail today is over 1,200 miles. Must be reroutes and other changes.
When this monument was made. The trail only covered 1 106 miles.
I finished walking down the mountain on Highway 11. A bizarre event happened when a shiny new black pickup pulled up next to me and asked me oif I had camped up on the mountain. The driver looked like a cop. I said yes. He asked if I had seen anybody else. I explained Not Guilty was on his way down, but otherwise no. He revealed he was with the railroad police and was looking in to somebody shining a green laser into a train engine last night.
Once the road flattened on the coastal plain, I started seeing a lot of bicyclists. It was flat, open farm country that backed up to the Chuckanut range. When I reached the small town of Edison, there were two cafes right there. Both, unfortunately, were closed. I went up to see the hours, but was disheartened to see they were both closed on Monday and Tuesday. Yup, I was in a tourist area.
While I was on the porch, a lady in a Subaru rolled down her window and asked “Can I help you?” which I interpreted as “what the hell are you doing peering in the window, bum?” When I explained I was looking to see when it would open, she said everything was pretty much closed, but down the road about a mile there was a bakery open. She then offered a ride, which I declined. I clearly had misinterpreted her.
When I got to the bakery, the same lady was out front, caring for the decorative flowers in front. I said hi and thanked her again for her help. We chatted for a bit. Under the heading “Small World” she was from Wayzata, Minnesota which is the town adjacent to where I live.
I ordered some delicious looking baked goods at the bakery (called ‘Breadfarm”). She came in, gave me a bunch of organic carrots she grew herself and paid for my food. I thanked her profusely and then decided to pay it forward.
I told the lady at the counter that a backpacker named Not Guilty would probably come in. Last night he had told me how much he loved good focaccia bread. So I prepaid for a small loaf and described him. I hope it worked out.
The rest of the day was a long but pleasant roadwalk near the coast. That is, until I reached Highway 20. I pulled the ultimate bonehead hiker move. There was a gas station where the trail put me on Highway 20. I got water and a coffee and put my feet up. Then, I started walking along Highway 20. About a mile later I saw some road signs that did not make sense. I then checked my phone app and discovered I had walked a mile the wrong direction. Fortunately, I was near an intersection and able to safely cross the highway.
Just as a I was heading back, a Mercedes van pulled over in front of me. The driver popped out heading towards me. He didn’t look like a nut job so I wasn’t too nervous. Turns out he was a PCT veteran heading to PCT days and thought I looked like a PNT hiker. I confessed I was, declined hi generous offer of a ride and learned his trail name was “Meander”. Neither he nor I mentioned I was about a mile off course. There is honor among backapckers.
The next few miles were simultaneously boring and life threatening as I followed Highway 20 in the right direction. Along the way I was amazed to see how many birds are killed by cars. I also found some dude’s paycheck. I took it into town and would mail it to his employer. Lastly, I went over this huge bridge that thankfully had a separate passenger path.
Rather than take in the whole scenic walk around an entire oil refinery, I took a minor short cut. Then the trail goes over Fidalgo Bay for almost a half mile on a hike/bike trail. The tide was coming in and there were harbor seals and an otter feeding just off the bridge. It was fun to watch.
My last unusual human interaction happened when I finally made it to Anacortes proper. A bicyclist pulled up and asked me if I had been much further up the coast earlier in the day. I said yes. He said he had seem me walk by his office and recognized me just as he was getting home. Nice guy and he gave me a solid restaurant recommendation.
The restaurant was great (Naung Mai Thai Kitchen). Stuffed, I tried to go to sleep early, with some success.
August 12, 2018 From motel in Sedro-Woolley to Lily Lake on Chukanut Mountain.
I was foggy from a bad sleep and seemed to pack in a similar manner. I only had around 20 miles today and most would be on pavement. Reluctantly, I left my smoky crime-scene room.
I stopped at a lonely gas station and got a coffee and corn nuts, a champion’s breakfast. Fortunately, I had also purchased hard-boiled eggs from the grocery last night.
I needed to take a few connecting backroads to get me over to “old Highway 99” which went north to Alger and later intercepted the trail. It was a pleasant walk with little Sunday morning traffic. A few dairy farms provided me with an audience.
Later, I passed a classic farmhouse that was in great condition. The owner was out ffront and we started chatting. Then his wife and their dog also came out. They had questions about the rail and the man was an avid mountain biker who knew many of the areas the PNT traversed. They were so kind, offering me waffles, other food, and water. Truly one of the great things about backpacking is running into such kind, helpful people.
The walk up old 99 was boring, with less RV and truck traffic than 20 or Baker Lake Road. I was able to finish one audio book {WHEN: The Scientific Secrets of Perfect Timing, by Daniel Pink…apologies for not remembering the MLA way to cite a book.}
“Break out the champagne! I landed the gravel pit listing!”
Up the road was Alger. During planning I had picked out Alger as a resupply place. Indeed, we mailed a resupply package to the motel there already. However, when looking for a place to send replacement shoes, Alger was sold out. Apparently DirtCUP 2018 was happening at the Skagit Raceway and that naturally drew in a crowd. When I went by, there were only a handful of RVs left at the Skagit Raceway. I learned also that yesterday/last night had been Ladies Night, a huge draw I’m sure.
I ate at the local pub. If you like good food, sticky tables, worn carpeting, and love the 65-year old Harley couple scene, this place would be heaven for you.
I trudged up the Old 99. Just before it intersected the trail and passed under Interstate 5, a couple asked me if anyone was looking for a dog. They had found it in a county park. Can you believe it was not on a leash when they found it? About 20 minutes later, I came across a “Lost Dog” flyer for a different dog that was lost locally.
Late in the day I finally got off pavement as the trail went into a forest area owned by the state Department of Natural Resources. It was a confusing route, not matching the maps. Indeed, some old-school person had placed white trail markings correctly.
Amazingly, just when I was getting a little lost, I ran into another backpacker. It was a hiker with the trail name of Not Guilty. We found the trail and hiked together until reaching Lily Lake, a pretty good campground right next to the trail. It was nice to finally meet somebody else hiking the trail. An experienced backpacker, he was enjoyable to spend time with. He said he was a late sleeper, I said I was an early riser, but he said it is hard to wake him up, so I said I’d probably be gone when he got up. Tomorrow would be his birthday. I told him I did not get him anything.
I had a new sleeping pad. It was nice and clean, but a little squeaky. The first time I had shared a campsite since Glacier and I am sleeping on a pad that makes a lot of noise anytime I move. Staying as still as possible, I eventually nodded off.
August 11, 2018. From stealth site above Concrete to Sedro-woolley motel.
I had set my alarm for 4:30. Right after it went off I was moving. Since it was still dark, I did everything by headlamp. However, once it came time to hike, I turned of the light. Clouds had rolled in as the forecast had predicted. Presumably, rain would come later. For now, though, the clouds trapped enough light that I could safely hike on the gravel road with no headlamp.
Only one car whipped past me on the curvy road down to town.
Low clouds hang over Concrete
In town there were a few historical displays. No surprise that its claim to fame was a large cement production plant. If you consider just the hydroelectric facilities I had passed, it is not hard to imagine the historical demand for concrete in this part of the country. One thing I learned was the ecological damage from a concrete plant. Sure, I assumed it would be dusty inside, but apparently a wide swath of surrounding countryside was often dusted with a heavy layer of waste.
I was waiting when the 5B bakery opened. I order corned beef hash. Then a danish. Then a cinnamon roll. The bus left at 9:30, so I had some time to kill. Eventually, people started flocking in. By the time I left, the line went almost out the door.
The bus made me feel right at home. It was populated with older men who looked either homeless or on some kind of work release furlough. Indeed, the two guys in front of me almost came to blows on how little money they paid for their used bib overalls. Yes, I was among my tribe.
Where did you get them overalls?
It felt so weird to go so fast. I had not been in a motor vehicle since Oroville. Out the window I caught glimpses of the 22 mile rail-to-trail route I was skipping.
Sedro-Wooley was a fair sized town, a little spread out. Until the Library opened at 11, I educated and amused myself by going to the museum. The lady who welcomed me had not heard of the PNT, so I gave her some history on it. Many of the displays were awfully close to looking like a very well organized garage sale. However, there were some real gems.
First, they had great photographs of early logging and railroad. There were some huge trees harvested in the Skagit Valley in the early years. Tow transport the logs, railroads were built, sometimes traveling over 130 high trestles.
Second, and more endearing, was the 2,334 pairs of salt and pepper shaker collection. Over her lifetime, Ida Mae Quarles collected them. As you can imagine, she was probably the easiest person in the word to buy gifts for. At least early on. She had custom display shelves built. Four of them. She left them to one of her daughters. Again, no surprise, the daughter demurred and donated the entire collection (with a few sentimental favorites withheld) to the museum.
Happy at this unique discovery, I went to the library to attempt to catch up on this blog. With energy being scarce, I had not made many entries. Indeed, I found a pen at some point and just wrote down some bullet points about each day. I made a couple entries, ordered a few supplies, and pushed off before the library closed at 3:00.
My motel was over a mile away, most of the walking to be done along busy Highway 20. I powered up my resolve by getting a burger at Hal’s drive in. Then, I walked, thankful the forecasted rain had not materialized. I was pleased to see I had a full-sized grocery store near the motel and some restaurants.
About a quarter mile from the motel, the skies unloaded. It was a sprinkle at first. I took the clue and popped open my umbrella. As the rain intensified, I did stay dry under the umbrella, but the splash from the cars whipping by next to me soaked me on the one side.
I got to the motel. It was an interesting place. After some fits and starts, I eventually got settled in. The room had a couple interesting stains on the floor, both appearing to be from a human and one almost certainly from blood. The previous tenant was apparently better than the rest of us because they had smoked cigarettes heavily. As an ex-smoker, I am nota crazy zealot, but it was annoying to have that reminder of making a bad choice everyday for 28 years.
I got my new shoes, and ate and bought groceries. I knew tomorrow would be mostly road walking so I bought crappy munching food at the grocery.
Stupidly, I turned on the news before going to sleep. I tried to sleep, but it did not come very easily.
August 9, 2018. Base of Mount Baker to Park Creek Campground
Truly a bizarre night of sleeping. I slept very deeply, but more than once cars whipped by on the nearby gravel road, causing me to start awake, but then immediately fall asleep again.
I got hiking around 5:30. The two-lane highway was reported to be dangerous with narrow shoulders, curves, and tourists watching the views, not the road. Almost immediately the road crossed a spring-fed stream, so I poured out my bad old water and drank a lot of the fresh clean water. The old water from last night had been “enhanced’ by adding some Crystal Light to it. I am now certain the Strawberry Kiwi Rust flavor combination will never work.
There was almost no traffic on the way up. After about an hour, views started appearing through the trees. I passed a ski resort and finally reached a large area of buildings and parking lots. While it was geared for mostly winter visitors, there was a fair amount of activity. As I walked through, I kept my eyes peeled for an outlet. Most of my batteries were low. Fortunately, as I passed the ski patrol building I noticed on the front by the road it had a covered outlet. When I tested it, it was live. So, I took about 45 minutes to charge my phone and “brick” battery.
May need the umbrella…Foxglove grows wild.
My next stop was to get on a trail. This area was designed for people to get out of their cars and hike for a half hour. The trail was clear and clean. It led up to a trail junction that led to a famous overlook called artists point. As I filtered some water near the trail, a couple went by with their two dogs not on leashes.
At the juncture, there was another parking lot that was full. It led to a popular location Lake Ann. I checked the trail register and the usual characters were still two days ahead. Just as I was leaving, another couple walked up with their dog not on a leash.
The trail to Lake Ann was populated and fairly easy. Just when I was going to need to pass through a gaggle of hikers surrounding a stream crossing, my journey veered away to the Swift Creek trail. It was classic PNT. One moment lots of people on a well defined trail, the next walking down a barely discernible path in a meadow.
The map made it look like the trail paralleled the creek and then gradually descended to cross it. At first the map was accurate, but after about an hour, the trail started going uphill. I was concerned and checked my GPS location. I was about 300 feet above where the trail was drawn on the map. However, I had not seen any junctions and I could sometimes see footprints going the same way, so I stuck with it. Eventually the trail did descend, but it sure didn’t match the map.
They look a lot better than they taste.This fella refused to face the camera. Great camouflage, though.
There had been several references to Swift Creek being dangerous to ford. Steep canyons combined with snowmelt can create this situation. When I finally got to the crossing, the creek was good sized, but not intimidating. A twist was that somebody had installed a zip-line that was about 7 feet above two parallel cables that all crossed the stream. Somebody had flung a towel over the top (zip) cable and seemingly crossed (or tried crossing) hanging on to the towel and tightrope walking their way across. No thank you. I just went down stream about 50 feet, found a slight widening in the stream and moved across. It was cold and it was fast, but the water barely reached them hem of my shorts. It took less than a minute. It reminded me of the Grand Enchantment Trail where there was a lot of hysteria about crossing the Rio Grande, but when I did it, it was super easy.
I still had another river crossing ahead. This one was on a creatively made bridge. Apparently each spring local volunteers come out and create the bridge. It was pretty good work.
Notice how silty the water has become from snowmelt.
I skipped the Baker Hot Springs and crunched down the abandoned forest road that was the trail. At the trailhead, there was a car campground. I walked through it and was pleasantly surprised to find a vacant spot. I dropped off my pack and ran down to purchase the camp spot. Walking back, I noticed that the three consecutive spots leading to my spot were occupied by a family. I guess they were going for a compound look. The had cats, dogs, bikes, pickup trucks, RVs, a boat, and an ATV.
After a little light drinking at the site next to mine, they did head off to bed at a reasonable hour. I had pitched my tent near the stream so the white noise of the creek would offset car campground noises.
This family highlighted an economic subset of our country that may not be highly visible to the average person, but is very clear on these backpacking trips. Specifically, there is a class of people that invest heavily in assets that depreciate. I cannot count the number of modest homes I have passed where the yard is covered with a late model pick-up, a boat, ATV, and/or an RV. If it is all new, then there is easily $5,000 to $10,000 of value just wasting away each year. Heaven forbid they bough on credit. I always am curious what these people have in their three digit plans(401 and 529). Obviously there is some pleasure derived, but adding up licenses, insurance, maintenance and these items are a real economic drain.
I discovered I had managed to place my tent on a fine set of tree roots, I was too tried to do anything except scoot around until I was able to lay down in an intuitive yoga position that avoided touching a root but was guaranteed to make me stiff tomorrow.
This tree was determined to grow even though it started life on top of a rock.Among small ferns, a white flower that looks like baby’s breath is quite attractive.
I was the first one up. Got my food and took off downhill. The glaciers on this side of the Pass were bigger. I wish the sun was higher to bring out the beautiful blue of the ice that is at the center of the glaciers.
The air had cleared and I was cruising downhill. I knew I had a long day ahead of me as I needed to get to the base of the Mount Baker highway.
After breakfasting on several spider webs, I stopped and had some trail mix. I was brushing my teeth near a stream and a couple showed up. They were out for few days. Just as they were leaving, a group of five ladies came by. They just said “hi” and passed by.
Later, I came to the famous cable car over a river with the improbable name of Chilliwack. The cable car is a two seat basket. You get in and pull yourself across.
I couldn’t figure out how to video the trip across. About halfway across, I did stop and notice how frayed the pulling rope was. Definitely a unique way of crossing a stream.
At the other side a mother with two kids and her dad had differing levels of enthusiasm about the ride ahead. Mom was far less enthusiastic than the little boy.
As the day wore on and I approached a popular trailhead, there were scores of people, all shapes and sizes and ages. One couple I met at the apex of Hennegan Pass. They had full packs and some climbing gear. They knew about the PNT and offered me rides since they lived right near the trail in Alger. Really nice folks.
I continued a long, shadeless grind downhill. For the first time in weeks, I broke out the umbrella for shade. It was wonderful. Not sure why I have such a Mary Poppins complex against using it more often.
I reached the trailhead and began a long walk on a gradually declining gravel road. One car did offer me a ride, but I declined.
I went past a cordoned off area that had a few dozen bee hives right beside the road. Not sure what the bees were pollinating, but I didn’t want another sting and went by swiftly.
The evening was warm and windless. I had a freak event happen. I was just walking along and about 100 feet into the forest, a good-sized dead tree just snapped and fell straight over. Random.
I finally reached a developed forest service campground at the bottom of the climb up the Mount Baker highway. It was called Silver Fir. All the places were taken. I looked at places to stealth camp, but didn’t see anything good. Then, I used their handpump to get water. I filled up my three liter platypus bag, but the water looked a bit off.
I crossed the highway to a lot used by the highway department. It also had some snowshoeing routes for winter. I went down a gravel road and after a quarter mile saw a small clearing where I could fit my tent.
I ate as it darkened and got into my tent. The water I obtained from the campground was so rusty it made me wonder how long it had been since my tetanus shot.
It was one of those nights where I don’t even remember putting my head down before I was fast asleep.
backpacking over the hill 