I wish I could say I was on the trail early
this morning, but I didn’t make it out the door until 8:00 a.m., which was
really, really late for me. I passed Brownie at the store, and other than
him, there were no other hikers around, although undoubtedly there will be
numerous hikers coming in within the next few days.
From White Pass to the Canadian border, it’s
only 362 miles; it seemed like a lifetime ago that I set out from Campo on the
Mexican-U.S. border to begin this journey, but in the last twenty-three hundred
miles, I’ve matured significantly as a human being.
I’ve endured a lot of physical discomfort; I’ve
known total despair; I’ve experienced the sweet feelings of deep gratitude;
I’ve been humbled by the tender mercies extended to me by my Father in Heaven
as a result of honest and sincere prayer; I’ve come to realize that every hiker
is a special person, with an interesting story to tell; I’ve come to feel
tenderness and gratitude to an extent I never knew possible for the
graciousness and kindness of every trail angel I’ve had interaction with, on or
off the trail; I’ve gained exponentially in empathy such that I never again
will look upon a homeless person in the same way as before the start of the
trail journey; I’ve come to realize that every hitchhiker deserves a second
consideration, and I’m more fully aware that relationships are more important
and enduring than the acquisition of stuff.
Swiss Army took quite an interest in my ocean
voyage, so I had my wife send me a few brochures about the journey that I had
printed a few years ago. At the trailhead where the trail crossed Highway
12, I found a Forest Service bulletin board and I attached a brochure to it
that I first placed in a plastic Ziploc bag. I was confident he would
find it in a day or so when he passed this way.
The trail between White Pass and Highway 410,
the road leading into Mount Rainer National Park, was relatively flat and
passed through meadowlands filled with bogs and swamps. The trail builders went
to great lengths to avoid these areas, and when possible, always kept the trail
on the crest of the mountains.
Judging from the number of horse biscuits and
pulverized dirt on the trail, I deduced that this section of trail was a
favorite with equestrians, and indeed, I encountered a few on the trail.
I always stepped aside so they could pass.
Being September, it was the bow hunting season,
which will be followed by hunters with rifles. I questioned a few bow
hunters I encountered and asked them if they were lucky enough to bag a deer,
how would they get it out of the mountains? They told me they would gut
and skin the deer, then separate the front and hind quarters from the body, and
pack only those items out.
Long before I came in sight of Highway 410, I
could hear the dim noise of vehicle traffic on the road, and then when I did
see it, it was a long way from the trail.
As I was about to cross Highway 410 at Chinook
Pass, a fast-moving hiker slipped past me. He stopped long enough to tell
me his trail name, which was Frank, and I had to assume that it was part of his
full given name. After crossing the highway, I kept to the trail as it
skirted above the road, while Frank dropped down to the restroom and picnic
facilities at the roadside rest stop.
It had rained on and off throughout the day, and
now as I passed the rest stop, the clouds become more ominous, and it looked
like a heavy thunderstorm was brewing. Wet mist rolled down the mountain
in front of me and floated across the highway and down into the valley on the
other side of the 410 Highway. Despite the unpleasantness of the weather,
there was no way to stop, rest, and dry out, and I don’t think I would if I
could have, as I was still trying to make mileage for the day, and the
inconvenience of the weather was just part of the total trail experience.
A mile up the trail, from Highway 410, was Sheep
Lake; I stopped for water and was quickly passed by Frank, and shortly
thereafter by Brownie. From the lake, the trail climbed straight up the
mountain to Sourdough Gap, followed a few miles farther by Bear Gap.
Between these two gaps, I began an anxious search for a place to camp, as
the trail was confined to steep mountain slopes and rain was imminent. My
fear was that Frank and Brownie would take the first camping sites they came
to, and I would have to keep going.
At Bear Gap, which as its name
suggests was the top of a high ridge, I found a semblance of a flat spot, and
though exposed, determine to make camp for the night. It was very late in
the evening and rain was minutes away from falling; already wet misty clouds
were congealing on the downhill side of the ridge. I was amazed that
neither Frank nor Brownie hadn’t taken this spot. In only a matter of a
few minutes, the tent was up and I was inside just as the skies open up.
My backpack was inside the vestibule, everything was zipped down tight,
and I smiled as the rain began to pound my tent.
As I snuggled inside my down quilt, the full
force of the thundering and lightning storm commenced with an onslaught of
rolling thunder, followed by gigantic lightning bolts that lit up the entire
nighttime sky; my tent was constantly aglow with light.
Then, like an oncoming freight train, gale-force
winds rushed up from the valley floor, whipped across the exposed ridge, and
flatten everything in its path. The winds were so fierce that I genuinely
feared they will rip my tent to shreds.
The roaring thunder and blinding flashes of
lighting reminded me of scenes from old movies where the Greek gods of heaven
did battle with one another by hurling bolts of lightning at each other in an
effort to destroy the opponent. And amidst the thunder and lightning and
hurricane winds, the rain descended in torrents. The storm lasted for
several hours, and all the while, I expected my tent to totally disintegrate.
One tent peg did pull out of the ground, allowing the wet end of the tent
to come in contact with my down quilt, and eventually soak that part of the
sleeping bag.
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