PCT 2017: Stehekin to Canada

The first few days out of Stehekin were a a hot mess, made significantly more miserable by the nearly continuous 25 miles of ascent to Cutthroat Pass.

“I think we’ll need to institute a siesta hour during the late afternoon if this heat keeps up,” Carolyn suggested.

“I know. I feel like I’m melting,” I replied. Crusty salt rings had already formed underneath the armpits of my powder blue shirt and we weren’t even 4 hours from Stehekin. “At least the sky isn’t hazy anymore.”

We both looked up into the laser beam of light blasting the world. It was so incredibly intense, like how the radiation from the coils in a convection oven feel when you open up the door to put your roast duck in. But for once the sky was actually clear and perfectly blue, and we could see more than just two miles in front of us. The fiery haze had seemed to disappear overnight like a magic trick, and in its place were hard, towering granite peaks and ridges that cast shadows on the hot and dry valley we were walking through.

There were only 80 miles left of Washington now, and my mind wandered to the finish line to try and separate myself from the frustration of walking through a smelter. We were close, much closer than we’d ever been, and this was the start of the final 5 days on the PCT. I wasn’t sure if it was excitement or melancholy I was feeling. Part of me was ecstatic to finally finish the trail, while the other half seemed content to never see the border. Sometimes knowing everything about a thing makes it a lesser entity. Maybe that’s what I was afraid of.

“How do you feel about finally finishing the trail?” I asked Carolyn.

“I’m ready to put this thing to bed,” she said. “But it is a little sad. It’s hard to imagine that summer is almost over.”

“I know,” I responded, wiping the sweat away from my eyebrow. “We’ll have to be normal people again.”

“Yeah,” she said, thinking. “We’ll have to live somewhere again.”

“And get jobs again,” I added.

“And take showers on a semi-regular bases,” she went on.

“And buy things we haven’t bought in awhile. Like dish soap and trash bags.”

We stopped in a thin patch of shade from a cluster of ponderosa pine. Carolyn turned around and looked at me.

“When you put it that way, normal life doesn’t seem so great.”

“Well,” I started, “you get to shit on a toilet everyday. That’s something, right?”

The remaining days came and went without much issue. This part of the trail is absolutely stunning. There are a lot of ridge walks at high elevations, and save for only one area where you descend down to a valley and walk through it for several miles, the views provided are consistent and breathtaking.

On our final full day of hiking a cold front came in and significantly cooled the forest. It sprinkled off and on and the tallest of the granite peaks remained hidden in wispy charcoal and soft blue clouds. It was cold now, and it was hard to imagine that just a few days ago we were walking through what felt like the surface of the sun. It felt more like late October, right when the leaves turn, when the mornings are crisp and cool, just above the temperature needed to produce frost, and the afternoons are sunny and comfortable while wearing pants and a hoodie.

The soft drizzle turned to rain, and for the first time on the PCT this year we donned our Walmart ponchos.

“The PCT wanted us to remember how it was last year,” I said. I swore at the sky and told it to stop being a bitch, but it didn’t seem to listen to anything I had to say. Nature does that pretty much all the time.

“I can’t feel my toes,” Carolyn said. We had been walking through over brush for a while now and the moisture on the grass and shrubs rubbed off on our shoes and socks bathing them in a numbing wetness.

We reached Woody Pass and stopped to take a break. The clouds had been starting to lift and a patchwork of blue sky appeared amidst the rolling waves of mist. We had a great view out to our west. Some large mountains loomed over there, far away, distant in their magnitude but ferocious still, with globs of snow clinging like Velcro on obsidian shaded cliffs.

“I’ll miss this,” I said to Carolyn, gazing out towards the view.

A soft drizzle returned as we began eating our lunch.

“Are you sure about that?” Carolyn asked, giggling, looking up into the sky with her hands and arms outstretched, feeling the rain.

“Well, not that part,” I said.

Our final camp spot was under tree cover by a trail junction to Ross Lake. According to our maps the intersecting trail was part of the Pacific Northwest National Scenic Trail, a lesser known long distance trail that originates in Montana at Glacier National Park and meanders 1200 or so miles west towards the Washington coastline.

I’ve heard of this trail before and have known a few people who have hiked it. I wondered if someday my feet would travel the route.

The night was much colder than it had been the past three weeks, dipping into the low 40s, which is actually an ideal sleeping temperature. But the excitement of finishing the hike tomorrow kept me awake and I had a hard time falling asleep. Stories from the trail passed through my mind and I thought about all the people I had met, the places I’ve seen and the experiences I’ve collected. I thought about how much I’ve learned about the United States and about myself over the past six years, and reflected on how different I am now compared to the 24 year old graduate student living in a small bedroom in Seattle.

I remembered that room well. It was in a large house on a wide street nicknamed “Greek Row”, where the majority of fraternity and sorority houses from the University of Washington were located. Large mansions sat beautifully among dark green grasses and tall oak trees that lined the avenue. The building I lived in housed mostly international graduate students and didn’t really fit it in with the surrounding neighborhood. The house manager, Mark, was a 40 something single guy who drove the Seattle Metro Bus and had a fierce passion for board games. He’d invite me to his room often to play Chinese Checkers and Dominion, a fantasy card game that was actually pretty addicting

Mark was a self proclaimed polyamorist. He didn’t believe in single partner relationships. He’d have “guests” over frequently, usually this one Columbian girl who lived on another floor in the house. I lived on the same floor as Mark, only a few doors down from him, and often could hear them through the thin walls while writing my Masters Thesis late into the night.

Sometimes I had to leave the house. I’d walk down the street in the dark, dull street lamps illuminating the drunk undergraduates stumbling back home, snickering and talking too loudly. I’d think about the Appalachian Trail then, gazing up into the soft black sky where the city lights drowned out all but the brightest of stars.

I’d picture how it must look on the trail in that moment. One night I’d think about Maine, the next night somewhere else, like Tennessee or Massachusetts or Vermont. I imagined how much brighter the stars must look out there and how much quieter it must be. Instead of cars honking and inebriated college kids laughing, the night would be filled with a silence so loud you could hear your heart slowly beating in your chest. You could listen to the wind rustle the maple leaves too, and hear the softwhistle of air as it passed between branches, composing beautiful songs of adventure and loneliness and far away dreams.

I’d return sleepily back to my room and the hallway would be quiet again. Sometimes the Colombian girl would pass me on her way back to her room and look at me as if she was sorry. I’d see Mark on his bed eating a tortilla and peanut butter sandwich with his shirt off while his cat Pearl lay on the ground . NPR would be on the radio and he’d say over the late news, “You’re getting in late. Want to play a game of Chinese checkers?”

Sometime during the night I’d fallen asleep and the first morning light was filtering through the soft orange tent. I rolled over and looked at Carolyn sleeping soundly, tucked away snugly in her sleeping bag. I wondered what kinds of dreams she was having.

The morning was cool as we gathered our things for the last time. It’s interesting how easily breaking down camp has become. You get into a rhythm and follow the same pattern every morning without even having to speak a word to one another. Soon we were off hiking towards the Canadian border, on our way to completing the Pacific Crest Trail and finishing my Triple Crown.

The 4 miles went by quickly and before we knew it an old wooden structure greeted us at the border. The mileage of the trail was engraved on the front of it and an Americana and Canadian flag stuck out of the top. There was a register in the border monument and we took it out and read some of the entries before writing our own.

We snapped a few pictures at the terminus and hugged each other.

“I love you,” I told Carolyn.

“I love you, too,” she said.

It was another 8 miles to Manning Park Lodge where food and accommodation awaited us. We were flying over the moon with happiness and our pace quickened as we started the final decent towards civilization. I wish we could have frozen that moment in time because what happened once we arrived at the lodge was nothing short of a disaster.

A young long haired brunette greeted us at reception in the Lodge Lobby.

“Welcome,” she said in a thick Australian accent. “What can I do for you?”

“What are the options to stay here tonight?” Carolyn asked.

“Well, unfortunately the lodge is all booked, but we have space in the hostel. It’s just across the highway.”

“How much is that?” I asked.

“It’s 35 dollars a person.”

That was very expensive for a hostel. Carolyn and I looked at each other unimpressed, but agreed to stay anyway.

After paying I asked about the bus to Vancouver.

“Yep, Greyhound picks up right outside the lobby here,” she said, pointing a finger towards the front. “You can buy tickets on your phone over wifi and e-mail it to us to print off. The bus comes at 2:00 AM.”

She squeezed this last part in real fast like she didn’t want us to hear it.

“Wait. What?” I said. “The bus is at 2:00 AM?” The guide book had said 11:00 AM. “Is that the only time the bus comes?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” she said.

“There’s no point of staying the night really,” said Carolyn as we exited the lodge to find the hostel.

When we arrived at the hostel our hearts sank a little. It was a rundown little shit brown house with a broken lock on the front door. The windows were smudged and cracked and when we entered the building the hallway smelled like trash and the carpet was dirty with mud and grit. We found our room and opened the door to find that the bed was unmade from the previous night’s visitor, and there was a broken chair in the corner with a stain on the seat.

“I’m not staying here,” exclaimed Carolyn. “This is embarrassing. They should be ashamed for charging over 70 dollars for this.”

“Let’s just get a refund and take the bus back to Vancouver tonight…well, tomorrow at 2:00 AM.”

She agreed.

It was the last thing either of us wanted to do. We were tired, hungry and smelly, and the only thing we really wanted to do was eat a good meal, take a shower and get a good night’s rest.

The lobby girl didn’t apologize when we told her about the hostel.

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “Usually when we get the keys back it means the hostel has been cleaned. There was an ultra marathon that just finished up yesterday and there were about 20 people staying there. It seems they must have left the place a mess.”

Once we got our money back we left to get something to eat at the restaurant. The prices were excessive. 17 dollars for a hamburger and French fries. 15 dollars for a caesar salad. The lobby girl gave us two free “drink” tickets, but for some reason they couldn’t be used to get anything alcoholic.

We felt better once we got something in our stomachs and then went back to the lobby.

We sat down inside on a comfortable sofa and tried to buy the Greyhound tickets. The lobby had two wifi options, a free one and a paid one. The paid one was faster and cost 3 dollars a day. We tried the free one first and it took 5 minutes for Google to load, so we both bought a day pass. They gave us a code to use but we couldn’t connect to the wifi. We bugged the lobby girl and she eventually got us on the network after rolling her eyes and fiddling around with our phones. We booked the tickets in time before the internet crashed.

“The internet isn’t working,” one person said to the manager.

“I haven’t heard it’s been down,” the manager said. “Try again later.”

Another person walked up. “I can’t load any web pages,” they said.

“That’s the first I’m hearing about this,” the manager lied.

She either didn’t believe these people or she didn’t know how to fix the internet.

“Glad we paid 6 bucks to not be able to use the internet,” I said to Carolyn. We still hadn’t found a place to stay in Vancouver and we were in the middle of our search when the internet burned out. 

“Good thing we have another 10 hours to figure it out before the bus comes,” Carolyn said as she stood up to stretch.

All of a sudden a large man came rushing into the lobby. A small Asian woman was using the lobby phone and he rushed over to the woman.

“How important is that phone call?!” He asked her, taking a deep breath like he had just finished running a marathon.

The poor woman didn’t speak any English and just looked blankly at the man.

“Is it more important than a kid leaving his rucksack behind?” He demanded.

The lady looked at him blankly.

“I have a kid without a ruck sack,” he explained. “I need to make a very important call like right NOW!”

The woman finally got up and handed the phone away.

The man made the very important call, tapping the buttons like a mad man.

“Hey!” he shouted into the black phone receiver, “Have you left the church yet?

Timmy left his rucksack there! It’s got all his camping stuff in it. His clothes, his sleeping bag, the blue frisbee, everything!

Can you bring it to the lodge?”

He sounded like it was his wallet he left behind.

“It’s the one with the blue frisbee in it,” he hollered. “You can’t forget the frisbee!

There’s also two chicken patties in the freezer. You gotta bring the chicken patties,” he said, taking a deep breath and then another one. “Whatever you do, don’t forget the chicken patties!”

He hung up the phone, sweat dripping from his forehead, and walked back outside.

Carolyn and I tried to hold in our amusement but couldn’t contain our laughter.

“Crises averted, I guess,” I said to Carolyn. 

She shook her head. “Internet’s back up.”

We booked an AirBnB in Vancouver and then waited around all night for the bus.

It was a long wait for 2:00 AM to roll around, but fortunately the lobby of the lodge was open 24/7 and staffed, so we could just lounge around on the couches and surf the shitty internet until the Greyhound came. The skeleton shift worker blared the worst mix of alternative rock, rap and everything in between, and the beats pounded through the lobby as people showed up late and then even later to check into the lodge.

The bus finally came and we climbed into the Greyhound. There weren’t two seats open together so we sat apart next to people that were already sleeping on the bus. The inside was hot and sticky and smelled like urine. It was a tough 4 hour ride through the winding mountains to get to Vancouver, but we finally made it just as the sun was coming up into the world and sending the dark away.

We emerged from the bus sweaty and smelly. We hadn’t slept for nearly 24 hours after a 5 day and 90 mile walk through the northern Cascades, so what better way to wind down than visit the downtown McDonalds at 5:30 in the morning.

The McDonalds was too bright inside and the smell of fried hash browns and burnt coffee filled the restaurant. We ordered some food and found a booth. Homeless people lay asleep in several booths with an empty cup of coffee sitting on the table in front of them. One guys’ flip flop was off exposing a black left foot. His grey long hair, greasier than the frier gurgling in the prep room, hung half in his coffee and half across the smudged table.

Another man sitting on a stool had his head in his hands on the island bar. We tried our best to eat our food but the filth of the McDonalds and the people there made it difficult. This wasn’t how we planned to spend the day after finishing the PCT. We should have been still sleeping in a nice comfortable bed and then eating a nice breakfast with proper eggs and bacon and toast. Instead we shoved flimsy egg McMuffins down our throats and washed it down with coffee the color and taste of motor oil.

A loud bang snapped behind us and we turned to find that a man carrying a large black trash bag toppled over a chair.

Following that, another man gurgled and heaved and the sound of liquid spilling on the ground filled the space behind me. It appeared that one of the passed out homeless people was throwing up all over himself.

“I need to get out of here,” Carolyn said.

The air outside was cool and pleasant. We walked north towards downtown. Morning light had filled the sky and despite our not sleeping that much we both felt awake and okay. The city skyline was bathed in sunlight and we found ourselves on a bike path. People were out for their morning runs, and other people bike commuting zipped hurriedly past us on their way to work. We walked into the city with everyone else. Walking seemed like something we couldn’t stop doing even if we tried. Soon, high rises steepled the sky, green and blue windows twinkling in the morning light, with trees and shrubs growing out of the rooftops. A notice board told us how much the condos were. Lofts at the very tips of the towers loomed over 3 million Canadian dollars.

We found a Starbucks nearby and sat outside in the cool air. It was a busy place. People walked back and forth in all sorts of outfits. Black suits. Grey sweatpants. Collared shirts the color of sea turtles. Short business skirts with beige leggings. Cargo shorts and t-shirts with ironic logos. Long dresses and candy red high heels. Construction workers with bright neon vests and scratched hard hats. Nurses draped in scrubs the color of grape juice. 

I sat there in a dirty sweat stained shirt and pants, dust colored trail running shoes that were ripped and falling apart, with a brown scraggly beard on my face that was too long and covered the top of my front teeth when I smiled.

I sipped a coffee and looked at the street. Cars and trucks whizzed by honking their horns at other cars and trucks. Trash floated through the air as the wind from passing cars lifted discarded plastic bags into flight. The smell of sewage and salt lingered faintly in the air, drowned out by the sound of a jackhammer blaring in a nearby construction site.

Why did people live in big cities, I thought? It was smelly and loud and obnoxious, and everyone seemed to have to work too much to afford to live there.

My thoughts drifted to the mountains. Everything there seemed better. The air was pure and clean. The water was crystal clear and delicious. The world was untouched and wild there, like how it was before we spilled concrete over everything, before we built towns and then cities, where food comes by trucks in plastic bags instead of from the soil beneath our feet, and everyone walks around over caffeinated and in a hurry, going to pre-planned activities that over saturate the day.

When did we lose track of time? At what point did we begin to chop it up into short little blocks and try to stuff our lives inside it, like drawers in a dresser overflowing

But instead of overflowing socks and shirts, its bursting at the seams with bills and dinner dates and work and grocery shopping. We have phones that act like computers and organize our time drawers for us. They beep and buzz and guide us along. They tell us where to be and when we need be there. They make us feel connected to things far away and out of reach, and they trick us into thinking how much control we have over everything in our lives. 

It all comes back to time, doesn’t it?

Time is an old man walking alone on a busy sidewalk. The wrinkles on his face are like large stacks of rippling pancakes. There’s gold and silver and bronze rings on the fingers of his leathery hands, and his cane clicks as he walks slowly over the concrete ground. He talks soft and drawn out, each word deliberate and perfunctory. He tries talking to people like you and me, to tell us a story or a joke, or tell us about his life, where he grew up and what it was like, about his family and his children and his grandchildren, what he did professionally before retiring and what he enjoyed doing for a hobby.

Most people rush by him and push him aside. They don’t have time to listen to an old man ramble.

Several people stop. They nod their heads and hear the man, but they don’t really listen to what he has to say.

But a few people stop and look into the mans eyes. They see him and watch his mouth move. They laugh and talk back and may even sit down on a bench and have a conversation with him. They take the time to know this man, to understand him, to make a brief connection even though they might be late to a meeting, or have to catch a later bus home.

They take the time for time itself. And this is what the mountains try to teach us.

The sun was higher now in the sky. The world was bright and the day was in full swing. My coffee was gone so we decided to move and leave the Starbucks behind. The street moved along with us as we meandered through a sea of people. We passed restaurants and bars, coffee shops and stores. The static of the workday lingered in the soft currents of conversation from people talking. Everything ebbed and flowed along the black asphalt of the roads, the winding alleys of space between buildings, and the gentle curves of the water near the bay.

The time was now and we were here on this sidewalk, walking through Vancouver without any particular destination.

And an old man walked towards us, face down, jeweled hands jingling, smiling and looking at the ravens flying overhead. His cane clicked slow and methodical, his smile sharp and wide, glittering in the sun.

We walked by each other, smiled, and never said a word. 

Thank you to everyone who helped me achieve the triple crown, especially my family. I couldn’t have done it without your love and support!