A Girl and Her Dog

This next section is about a girl conquering her fears—namely, her fears of (1) being alone, (2) being alone in the dark, and (3) being alone in the dark whilst camped in the wilderness with only a flimsy 2 ½ pound tent (and a one year old puppy) to protect her from the wild beasts that roam in the night.  Let’s start from the beginning.

Towards the end of the last section of our hike, which I wrote about here, Nathan’s knee began to ache, particularly on the down hills.  Rupal also developed a slight limp, so after spending a night at White Pass we decided to take a few days rest and schedule a visit with the doctor (or veterinarian, in Rupal’s case).

The timing seemed perfect.  The front end of the storm we experienced during our final days in the Goat Rocks Wilderness had moved in with full force, and several inches of snow fell in the upper reaches of the Washington Cascades over the next few days.  I later spoke with three German hikers—whose trail names were Happy Oats, Messy Fruit, and Captain Quick—who said they had been forced to camp along the Knife’s Edge and wait for the storm to pass.  Others exited the trail altogether and rejoined once the weather improved.  The picture below shows our final, rain soaked campsite at White Pass, which as you can imagine, we were not too terribly sad to leave behind.

The results from the doctor were disappointing, to say the least.  Rupal had tendonitis in her paw and Nathan’s knee, although thankfully not seriously injured, was painfully inflamed.  Both were ordered to ice regularly and refrain from any vigorous exercise for at least two weeks.  Apparently, hiking fifteen miles a day over mountainous terrain while carrying a thirty or forty pound backpack qualifies as “vigorous exercise.”  Who knew?  The only consolation for Nathan was that he could now go to the Dave Mathew’s Band concert at the Gorge Amphitheater in eastern Washington, which he has done nearly every Labor Day weekend for the last decade or so.  I decided to go with him to the show, and we had a great time with friends.  I was anxious to get back on the trail, however, and refused to believe my adventure on the PCT was over.

As luck would have it, a family friend knew about our hike and mentioned my predicament to her daughter in law, Carolyn, who had read my earlier blog postings.  When Carolyn learned that Nathan would be unable to continue on the next section, she offered to take his place, at least for part of the hike.  I gratefully accepted her offer, and we made a plan for her to meet me the following week at Chinook Pass.  But to get to Chinook Pass, which borders Mount Rainier National Park to the east, I still needed to hike the roughly 30 mile section of the PCT from White Pass, where Nathan and I had left the trail.  My sister, Audrey, agreed to hike in three miles and spend the first night with me.  After that, I would be on my own.

I have a confession to make.  To say that I am afraid of being in the woods after dark is somewhat of an understatement.  I am absolutely terrified of being outside at night, and always have been.  As a child, I failed miserably at every backyard camping endeavor I attempted with friends, despite being only ten feet from the front door.  Sadly, not much has changed over the years.

Even when I am camped with Nathan, I will generally shake him awake several times throughout the night and demand that he explain to me what made this or that sound that I heard, which I am convinced is some sort of monstrous creature on the verge of tearing into our tent and eating us alive.  I’m usually wrong, thankfully.  And even if I were to encounter a bear, for example (which I have on several occasions), I am well aware that despite their seemingly ferocious demeanor and appearance, these animals are actually very timid.  I could easily frighten a bear away by the sound of my voice.  I know this.  But while the rationale part of my brain understands there is absolutely no basis whatsoever for me to fear for my life, this feeling of sheer terror invariably arises whenever I hear the slightest of noises coming from outside my tent.  And although I have probably camped in the wilderness hundreds of times over the last 27 years of my life, I have somehow managed to avoid ever having to camp alone.  Until now.

Three miles north of White Pass, Audrey and I found a wonderful campsite perched on a small peninsula jetting into the nearly dry Sand Lake.  After serving her one of our delicious vegan dehydrated meals, we settled into our tent for the night for what we hoped would be a peaceful night of rest.  Not even close.  First, the coyotes began to howl.  Then came the bugling of the elks, which if you haven’t heard before, sounds more terrifying than death itself.  I met one hiker who told me that if he hadn’t seen an elk bugling during the daytime, he would have concluded that it had to be Sasquatch.  If you’re curious, watch this video clip.  Be sure to close your eyes and imagine yourself in a pitch-black tent as the sound gets closer and closer.  Needless to say, we slept very little that night.  As I lay wide awake hour after hour, I was certain I couldn’t continue on my own.  There was no way I could endure a night of terror by myself.

Thankfully, the world always looks different in the morning.  Emboldened by the daylight, I somehow mustered the courage to continue on my own, my desire to become a stronger person and overcome my fears ultimately prevailing.  And of course, I was fine.

That first day, Nutpse and I hiked roughly 17 miles through the old-growth forests of the William O. Douglas Wilderness, filled with inviting subalpine meadows and countless sparkling blue lakes (which Nuptse had to swim in, of course).  The views of Mount Rainier where spectacular, and the color of the leaves served as a vibrant reminder that Fall is just around the corner.

Although I passed a handful of hikers throughout the day, I was otherwise left alone with my thoughts as I walked and breathed in the scenery around me, both literally and figuratively.  I noticed that I hiked with a heightened sense of awareness not usually possible when others are around, paying closer attention to the fragrance of the trees and the earth, the smallest sights, the faintest sounds.

As we picked up our pace during the final hours of daylight, still several miles from camp, I noticed something large and white moving across the rocks just above us.  I instantly recognized that it was mountain goat and put Nuptse on a leash, urging him forward along the trail.  Although we were close enough that I did not feel comfortable taking a picture, we passed without a problem and made it to our camp along the shores of Twin Lakes just as the sun was setting.

Thankfully, three other thru-hikers—All Good, Oso, and Oso’s father, McDad—were camped nearby and I joined them for dinner.  We sat around the non-existent campfire as they shared stories from their journey from Mexico, Nuptse curled up on the ground beside me.  Although I am only hiking a small segment of the entire Pacific Crest Trail, I still feel I am a part of the “tribe,” the collective experience of hiking the trail that transcends ordinary life and any hiker’s individual experience.  As I crawled into bed, the howl of a coyote or perhaps a wolf echoed loudly from just across the lake.  Although my heartbeat quickened and the hair on the back of both Nuptse’s and my necks stood up, I was comforted by the fact that others were nearby and we both slept soundly through the night.

I awoke early, but took my time the next morning eating breakfast and packing up camp.  I was less than ten miles from
White Pass, and found myself wanting to savor my time alone.  I sat along the lake shore, sipping tea and throwing sticks
for Nuptse as the sun rose above the lake and painted the rocks with a golden light.  I hiked the remaining miles with ease, feeling utterly content with Nuptse as my only companion.  Although I will always prefer hiking with others and sharing my experience with those I care about, I now know I can enjoy and appreciate my time in the outdoors alone.

My parents were waiting for me when I arrived at the enormous yet secluded Dewey Lake, just south of Chinook Pass. We soaked our feet in its cool waters before making our way back to the motor-home (these days referred to as the “PCT-mobile”).  A trail angel was parked nearby, and was cooking food for several thru-hikers when we arrived. We socialized for a while before eating our dinner in the camper.  Nuptse and I slept soundly, despite the occasional elk bugling in the hills above us.

It may seem insignificant to some, but I did it—I not only survived the last 26 miles on my own, but also conquered one of my biggest fears in life.  Who knows what challenge I will decide to take on next—right now, I feel like I’m ready for anything.