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.
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 10, 2018. From Park Creek Campground to stealth camp in commercial forest above Concrete.
I was the first one up in the campground. The family reunion people must felt at home because they simply let their dogs out to roam. They were pretty well behaved and sniffed their way through my camp.
I had another day of highway walking. My Chief Logistics Officer has informed me of a potential bus route in the small town of Concrete that would get me to Sedro-Woolley where she had reserved a motel and where new shoes awaited me. Tomorrow, Saturday, it only ran twice: early in the morning and late in the afternoon. All I had to do on this day was get close to Concrete and camp so I could pop in to town, eat, and get on the bus.
At first the early morning walk was beautiful with no traffic. I did, however, encounter a tragedy. On a bridge with solid concrete walls, hundreds, if not thousands, of tiny toads were trying desperately to get into the water. I don’t know how they got there, but it was hard to catch and rescue them. After 15 minutes, I stopped trying to help and turned my back. Once traffic started, that bridge was going to be unpleasant.
Highway walking is boring. It is repetitive motion, so your feet and legs, which have become accustomed to intense variety, get numbed by the repetition. Mentally, there is not much there other than avoiding being killed. So, I tried listening to an audio book. However, this got to be a hassle because to hear it over the sound of the occasional truck or massive RV, I had to have the volume up too loud.
Late morning I came to a stream that was recommended as a good water source. I walked down and there was a lady sitting on the rocks at the stream’s edge about 20 feet upstream. We exchanged hellos. She had a smaller backpack, more like what a student would use than a backpacker. I went about filtering water. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see she was just sitting there sometimes tossing a rock in the stream. I must’ve been too focused on my water because I looked up and she was walking right near me. She said sorry as she brushed past and up close I could see from her skin and teeth she was leading a pretty tough life. She had vanished by the time I got back up on the road.
I eventually jumped off the busy Baker Lake Road and went on the shoulder-less Burpee Hill Road. Since all of the motels in Concrete had been sold out for weeks, my plan was to sleep up on the bluff overlooking town and then drop down early in the morning. Hopefully, there would be some public land I could camp on.
Early on, my plan seemed bad. All the land appeared to be privately owned. Just before the road began its curvy descent to town, I passed a gate. It was across a road and said “No Cars Allowed.” It did not say no trespassing or have any other warnings. Earlier, along Baker Lake Road, I had seen similar gates and they did have additional prohibitions. Seeing no overt prohibition, I hiked at least a half mile up the gravel road. It was maintained and used, but judging by the foliage growing in the tire tracks, not very often.
While I waited, a doe and her two fawns snuck out of the woods and foraged before seeing me. You can get a sense of the mosquito level by their twitching.
I waited until dark to pitch my tent. I managed to pitch my tent on what felt like a rock quarry. However, the promise of town food, a bus ride, and new shoes proved a powerful elixir.
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.
August 7, 2018. From Big Beaver Camp to Whatcom Pass.
I was glad to get moving in the morning. I could smell the smoke in the air and feel the building heat.
Fortunately, most of my morning would be spent gradually heading upstream along Big Beaver Creek.
There were two immediately striking features in the morning. First, the bluish, opaque stream colored by the grit from snowmelt. Second the huge cedars and western hemlock. Massive trunks supported a canopy of branches a hundred feet up.
This environment was good for toads and their offspring. When I first saw the forest floor moving, I thought it large ants.
This skinny guy was hard to see.This one was not so hard to see.
The trees were interesting. Their size meant they truly blocked out sunlight from plants below. It struck me how little life there was. Hardly any songbirds, scarcely a sign of deer or squirrels. Cedars and hemlocks produce tiny cones and consume all light. In poignant contrast, the mosquitoes were large, numerous, and happy to see me.
This cedar had to be 20+ feet in circumference.Quick, who is older?
Due to the absence of wildlife and wind, the cathedral-like forest was hushed, like when you walk into a large empty church. If you stopped, there was an overwhelming sense of space and silence (except for the tinny buzz of mosquitoes).
When light penetrated, it would occasionally reveal an intricate spider web. Try as I might, I cannot get a satisfactory picture of a spider web.
I found a charming stream and got some water that was not silty.
Later, I met a group of two guys and one lady, all young and in a hurry. Selfishly, I was hopeful they had been hiking a while and therefore had cleared all the spiderwebs on the trail. No such luck. Just after I passed the next campground, the webs started again.
A bit later, I met another two-men, one-woman group. They were from South Carolina, up for a friend’s wedding. Fun people.
I climbed over a ridge from Big Beaver Creek and dropped steeply into the next valley with the unimaginative name of Little Beaver Creek. No idea what the would’ve done if there was a medium sized beaver.
Subtly, the flies began to dominate the mosquitoes. Less quick to bite, their size and relentlessness made them more irritating.
One thing about federal parks or recreation areas: they do bridges right.
I made my way up the valley. It got high enough that there was snow and glacier up high across the way. With the heat, the melt created numerous waterfalls. Visually, it was mesmerizing.
Whatcom (pronounced watt come) Pass was my reserved campsite. It had a legendary reputation as an intense climb. It lived up to its reputation. Near the top, some of the wood buttressing the slope had dissolved.
The gray timbers were there to shore up the gravel trail above.
The campsite had a reputation as prone to bear visits. As a result, I ate my dinner about a quarter mile away to cut down on odors. There was a boulder field with a lot of pikas who squeaked their annoyance at me.
I was the last to arrive at the reserved campsite, so I got the least attractive campsite. The best tent pad looked straight down the valley. Mine looked north at a boulder field. I hung up my food and got my tent put together.
I heard the Pikas going off. Then I heard a large rock tumble. I looked and at the edge of the boulder field was a good sized black bear pointed uphill (away). don’t know the proper way to size black bears, but he looked like four Labrador Retrievers mushed together. If you’ve suffered through earlier blog posts, you know I am not a fan of bears. I yelled and he moved a bit and looked at me. Finally, I clapped loudly and he scurried uphill and away from the Pass, in to the trees.
My neighbors came over to see about the ruckus. We had a good chat and they all said they had hung their food. As you can imagine, I did not sleep too well, startling awake to the slightest sound. As you can equally imagine, nothing happened. When I reflected on this bear’s behavior, he seemed to just want to go over the pass and avoid humans. The biggest wildlife lesson on this trip is that animals very much use passes and saddles as transportation highways.
July 25, 2018. From Okanogan Forest camp to Cougar Creek camp. 22 miles
I was not well rested after the rough night. Still, I packed efficiently and even forced myself to eat my breakfast of cold-soaked 10 grain cereal.
It was a beautiful day for hiking along this seldom-used road. I had seen no cars on it yesterday. With this solitude, you would not be surprised that when it came time to perform an important bodily function, I simply took off my pack and went a few yards into the woods to dig my cat-hole and take care of business. Well, as Murphy’s Law would have it, another hiker, heading the opposite direction, comes walking down the road. Nobody for days and this guy walks up on my dump. I tried to recover as quickly as possible, but it was certainly awkward.
We chatted briefly, but I was eager to get on with my life.
Later, as the day got hotter, I took the aptly named Sweat Creek Trail. It was a tough climb on a hot afternoon. Perhaps some steep climbs, I heard the chainsaws of a trail crew. After waiting in the distance for them to see me, I had a good, short visit. It was two adults and three teenage helpers. They were a legitime PNT crew. I expressed my gratitude for all the work they do and showed the younger ones all the scars on my legs from going over blowdowns, etc. Also, I let them know I was a dues paying PNTA member.
Their work is hot and difficult. I whine about carrying a backpack in hot weather, but these folks get up, put on long pants, work boots, hard hats, carry their gear uphill to the worksite, and labor in the sun all day. I thanked them again and let them get back to work.
Part of the work this crew had to remedy was eliminating misleading cattle paths. Generally, cattle are fairly good trail makers, sometimes they riff on their own. What this means is they will very often follow the main human trail, but, when it suits their bovine fancy, they cut a new path. Thus, in many areas a hiker has a very difficult time telling the difference between the human and cow paths.
On my way downhill, I could see the trail crew had a lot of tree and cattle work. As if to prove the point, I encountered a small herd of about three pairs of cows and calves. Always, I stop and talk in a calm manner when I see cattle on the trail. While sometimes they amble off safely, other times, like this one, one bolts and the others follow. You might be surprised how agile these animals at going downhill at speed, jumping over obstacles. I waited a few minutes so they would not feel threatened. I don’t want either a calf or cow to get hurt running.
Unfortunately, I’ve seen this movie before and was not surprised to have the same process repeated. Two more times. In all, they probably ran downhill for a 750 foot elevation loss over a mile. Finally, one of the cows went left off the trail and the calves, who normally choose the trails, chose to follow her.
It was evening by the time I reached the bottom of the trail. The guide book made a vague reference that the trail seemed to go on private property but to veer left. Mild understatement. The trail basically dumps right in to someone’s yard. I didn’t see a dog, but clearly somebody lived in the trailer parked there. I went immediately over to the edge of the yard and moved quickly and quietly away.
Eerily, the occupant(s) had a fascination with skulls and decorated their yard with several plastic skulls and skeletal parts. At age 56, I am just too damned old to be abducted and converted by some cult. Think about it. You never hear about guys like me getting captured and converted, it is always younger people. So, I kicked in to high gear and got the heck out of there.
I came out on a public road. It switched between private property and public land. There were definitely some unique homesteads along the way. Maybe you live in a suburb or a nice urban setting. Indeed, you’ve also probably seen poor, blighted urban areas. However, taking a long walk really draws out a different variation of the American dream. There are rural areas where it is either the start, or fulfillment, of the dream to get a piece of land and park an RV or Camper on it and call that home. Sometimes there is evidence of a more permanent, traditional structure in various stages of completion. I can sort of understand the pride of ownership angle, but most of the situations appear to never convert to permanent housing. Instead a second or a third trailer is added. (I shudder to think what their septic solution looks like.) Pointedly, most of these smaller homesteads were the most prominent displayers of “Private Property” or “Keep Out” with a few specifically mentioning government officials. (Note I have the honor of working with municipal employees in my community and can’t recall any kind of professional that works harder to be fair, judicious, and considerate.)
I passed a few properties where they spilled some of their excesses on to the public right of way. I’m not a “car guy” but one place was occupied by one who convinced himself (and perhaps a long suffering wife), that he would hold on to junkers to “part them out.” To nobody’s surprise, the Dodge Aries and various Datsun models did not generate much demand, so these vehicles decorated the road.
Eventually, I found a flat secluded spot on public property down by the creek. It got darker faster in the narrow valley. I ate my dinner while shooing away yellowjackets. I pitched my tent, hydrated some more, and went to bed.
While I initially dropped right off to sleep, in the night I was awakened by a sound. Not one crunching in the woods or brushing against the tent. Eerily, it came from underneath the tent. In the ground, there were subtle digging sounds and then a muffled pig-like snort. Being a guy and having lived in apartments, I naturally reacted by pounding on the ground. That produced silence. For a few hours. I had to repeat this one more time. In the morning, when i packed my tent, I could not see any obvious signs of tunneling or disturbed earth. I’ll never know what it was.
I find it fascinating that spruce trees will “feel” that they are dying and produce these clusters of robust growth, kind of like the opposite of cancer cells. I’m not sure if these anomalous growths are then intended to jumpstart regeneration when the tree falls.Saw this grave marker along the gravel road this morning. Couldn’t tell if it was for a pet or an unpopular relative.
July 24, 2018. From Thirteen Mile Mountain to stealth camp on Forest Road before Ogle Creek.
In spite of the strong moonlight, I woke up rested. I broke camp relatively quickly.
It was a brilliant, beautiful morning going slightly up and down on trail through grassy ponderosa forests. Great views.
Later in the morning I was cruising downhill, I went from sunny slope to a sharp shaded corner. That was where the accident happened. For my part, it took me two full steps before I recognized the sound of a rattlesnake. For his part, he waited until I was next to him before rattling as he wound himself up underneath a Bush. We both screwed up. I went back to see him and he had beautiful green markings. The video does not do it justice, but you can understand I did not want to stress the creature or, more to the point, get bit and die all for the sake of a more clear video. This isn’t Mutual of Omaha, people.
Later, I crossed a road with a trailhead. I loved it. There was a description of Thirteen Mile Trail. Best part? The length of the trail. All of my avid blog followers know I love goofy signs. So, both of them can understand my glee over the Thirteen Mile Trail being 16 miles. What do you think happened?
I was too tired to consider how a difficulty rating of difficult worked.
I dropped down an amazing canyon of Thirteen Mile Creek. It had huge 500 foot sheer walls and a churning stream. Suddenly, the stream disappeared. Just as suddenly, it reappeared, apparently choosing to run undergroundfor a quarter mile.
The photo fails to capture how high and sheer the cliffs were.
I next had a 2 mile walk on a highway with no shoulder. The Guidebook said this was the Grand Canyon of Washington. I was not impressed. Plus, there were a couple jerk drivers who clearly could’ve moved over, but chose to hug the lane and almost clip me.
Off the road, I had a dry trail uphill for several miles. It was tough. I had one of my oddest wildlife experiences. Given the amount of time until my next resupply and chance to charge batteries, I have been turning off my phone which is my camera. At a road junction, I was looking at my printed map. A spotted fawn trotted out of the woods. I reached for my phone and turned it on. On a whim, I told the fawn to “calm down.” Unexpectedly, it turned and came right to me. It was panting. It was obviously stressed, but I knew taking my pack off to give it water would spook it. By the time my phone turned on, the fawn was trotting away through the woods. So bizarre.
Late in the day, after passing cattle and timber harvesting, I came to a “V” in the road. A sudden crashing in the bushes uphill made me reach for my phone. I spied some black ears and a scalp. I wasn’t sure if it was a wolf or a black bear. As I was getting my camera ready to video, the bear cub came into the open. “Oh shit”. I hightailed it out of there not waiting a nanosecond to see where momma was.
An eventful day drew to a close when I found a beautiful grassy plateau for my camp. I hung my food far away and went to sleep. Or tried. It turns out I was on a bit of a lump, plus the zipper on my tent failed. So I spent a lot of the night fidgeting to find a comfortable position and waking to a mosquito buzzing my ear.
backpacking over the hill 