I woke up to rain and was feeling pretty fucking devastated.
There was a chance that it would burn off through the afternoon but the clouds were high and thick and misty raindrops cascaded to meet the soft mud and wet rocks and burdened pine needles around us. Flower heads drooped under the load.
I didnt have a pack liner, a last minute oversight. I rearranged my food and supplies after a breakfast of last night’s leftovers and a cup of coco to get my spirits up but I cried as I got my sleeping bag into a stuff sack that is at least water resistant.
And then I set to retraining my sights from a hard day with beautiful views and relationship building challenges to staying dry and staying warm and staying focused so that we would get through this together. I retrained my sights on the resilience of our friendship and teamwork.
We headed up to Cispus Pass. We were both in poor spirits about the weather. But a misty wildflower ridge climb has its merits even in low visibility.
Small birds flitted from damp pines to stalks of flowers. Chipmunks kept watch for trail snack crumbs. Rainwater cascaded down the mountains rocky chutes at every turn.
We chatted as we walked, and pointed out cute critters as we came across them.
This is an uncommon practice for us. In 2019 we hiked separately most of the time, meeting at camp rarely but usually just in town. So this is a new dynamic, necessitated by my penchant for lagging and napping. Intimidating in it’s intimacy.
Our deal to hike back to back 13s feels uncomfortable for me to keep up with in this terrain so to keep my end of the bargain I keep pace closely. And it’s really really nice. We chat and laugh and process and joke and get around to admitting that despite the rain and shrouded views the hike feels good and I find myself coming across some small moments of joy in the bleak weather.
We hope for sun. We marvel at the otherworldly nature the fog and mist gives to an already impressive landscape.
We cross the Cispus River headwaters and travel on to some falls where we cross wet footed and unbothered beneath their misty beauty.
As we descend again into the woods the day is still young and the miles are passing easily. Our 830ft climb out of the way we move on in anticipation of the crawl up to the Knifes Edge.
1200 feet pass a little more tediously and we call out to the sun as it teases us through the white mist, to no avail. We arrive at the last camp before Knifes Edge and I’m wobble kneed and out of breath. I start to choke down my lunch of snacks but the chill sets in and it starts to rain again and we decide to keep moving.
We cross a daunting snow field, daring disorienting glances down to a brilliant blue pond below. Wary of further icy stretches we opt for the longer and more exposed PCT Alternate over the Stock Route when we reach the fork. The trail is difficult to find and we begin with a rocky scramble up to find it with a fellow hiker, Poppins, leading the way once we see a family descending towards the cairns between us and them. Children hopping down the rocks joking and playing as they make their scramble down? In rain boots? Obviously this can’t be that hard?
The climb feels endless and finally the route narrows. A thick white mist presses in on all sides and a strong wind streaks up the jarringly steep cliffside to meet us. Right. Children in rain boots. On we go.
The trail of uneven and shifting rock is as wide as maybe ten feet in places, as narrow as four or five in a few pinches. Ocassionally I notice a fresh streak of fallen rock from the trails edge. The left face of the rocks are wet from the bluster of fine cold mist being driven up the ridge. I place a hand on the dry side of one for stability as I climb down and it’s warm. Again in vain I hope for sun.
Photo credit :: Poppins
At first I joked that the fog might make the obscured but obviously fantastically drastic drops less frightening but instead I found it disorienting as I braced against gusts of icey wind, sharp droplets of mist searing into my ear. I breath through fear. I swear through unsure footing. The wind whips the snot and rain dripping off the tip of my nose out into the void. I wonder if we should turn back. Together we slowly pick our way along the ridge.
Photo credit : Poppins
The view is obscured not only on either side of the trail but ahead and behind as well. It’s impossible to tell how far we’ve come or where we’re going. Poppins slides in and out of view in the mist as we climb up and down the ridge across shale and crushed rock.
At one point the trail evens out and widens and Im surprised as I choke out several emotional sobs as my body relaxes. But I continue on and the fog reveals the path onward as it narrows and rises again. It felt like walking off the edge of the world at that point. And I had already spent myself emotionally.
Photo Credit :: Poppins
Eventually the path turns down the ridge into the wind and it seemed to endlessly rise and fall sometimes delicately skirting the side of the shifting mountain face and sometimes again crossing upon the ridge of it’s back. A small gaggle of hikers appeared from behind and we all filed along for a while until there was just enough room for them to pass. They trotted off ahead and their dark forms were just discernable enough to follow through the white out to see that we were nowhere near the end.
Photo credit :: Poppins
It was endless. It was miserable. But we had eachother. Slowing to breath. Slowing to steady my shaking knees. Sharing and then repeating half hearted jokes and quipts and commiserations over the bluster of the wind.
It felt unfair. It felt cruel to have pushed so hard for nothing but the stark white frightening void.
But it felt undescribable to do it together.
After an eternity, after Poppins and the other hikers had dissapeared ahead long ago, the path slowly started to descend further between climbs. The fog lifted below us exposing the lush sweeping meadows and streams and cliffs beneath her skirts. I was awe struck and hurt.
Slowly we wound down and down and down and as we climbed down the fog began to dissipate. The sound of rushing water came over one last ridge and we turned to see lush green alpine meadows, speckled profusely with bright wildflowers. Great baseball sized chunks of shining obsidian tumbled under my numb feet on the thin rocky trail leading through the vegetation. It was profoundly beautiful and I felt ….spent.
“It’s so beautiful but I have nothing left in me to feel” I lamented.
I breathed and tried to grasp hold of the moment but it eluded me.
We made our way down into the valley and a shock of flowers and a chipmunk bounding through their stalks illicited a small chuckle of joy. At a stream crossing high above I spotted a marmot trotting along a snow bank and chuckled as I pointed it out to Caiti and in turn she pointed it out to Poppins who was filtering water at the stream.
“I have some pictures of you I can air drop you if you’d like!” she offered.
My phone had frazzled out in all the rain anyway and I don’t think either of us had the composure to capture anything in the wind anyway so it was a delight to hear.
We all shared our dissapointment and frustration with the conditions and also discovered that we had all hiked 2019 northbound from the border.
We parted ways and the sun shone down and slowly the wind began to sweep the foggy clouds away. As we climbed out of the valley I realized my body was lightly shaking with fatigue and my lack of enthusiasm for the beauty around us could at least partially be chalked up to a caloric deficit so we sat in the sun and I pulled off wet clothes and we set out our rainflys to dry before we continued our scramble downwards towards camp. I snacked and laid in the sun.
A couple hundred calories down the hatch we packed up and went on. My mood still waned and the sun shone brighter…. and Knifes Edge was unveiled above us. I was heartbroken.
Too spent to cry I raised a finger to the mountains.
“Fuck. You.”
They were beautiful. And all I felt was hurt.
I was sore and tired and just wanted to go to bed and we trudged on down into the forest again.
My thoughts reeled through the days events, through life events, through what could possibly come next, what could possibly be gleaned from any of it and then I realized: You are tired. You are hungry. And you are thirsty. And you just need to walk. You can make sense of it when you are rested. When you are fed. And when you are hydrated.
And so I walked. And eventually that snack break kicked in for a bit and I was in better spirits. Still bitter. But able to be in the moment and our shared experience rather than festering away in my mind a million miles away. Our shared experience of disappointment. Of fatigue and ache. Of curiosity and trepidation for tomorrow’s 1500ft climb and in the longing for a hot shower and a warm bed. And of the thing we just got through together, being seen in the struggle and holding eachother through it.
After our harrowing afternoon the soft loping forest trail moved smoothly if a little painfully beneath our feet and we pressed past our goal of 13 miles to make camp just 10 miles from town.
Even if tomorrow was another trial (Poppins informed us the rain was returning) it would be a shorter one.
We made camp and another hiker joined us we set up our tents. A thruhiker destined for Canada, hiking alone after separating from his desert aquaintances. He expressed some enjoyment of the solo experience and also that it would be nice to do it with a close friend. I explained Caiti and I’s old tendem solo dynamic and what a great balance it was and felt a surge of gratitude for our friendship in all it’s iterations.
Then I crawled in my tent. I peeled off my still damp clothes and slid on dry sleep clothes. I inflated my sleeping pad. I drank water. I ate. I knew I would wake up and eat again in the night. I foam rolled my numb feet, finding them tender after all. I stretched. And I crawled into bed to rest up for tomorrow’s climb. And for once I didn’t cry
Blake x Boomhauer
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