July 30: South Sisters Lakelands

The way has been rolling and green, under patchy cover of verdant, coniferous canopy today. Fallen trees, debris, small ponds, insects fill the narrow, closed views surrounding. I am feeling tired, a fatigue working through my body on this our 10th day of hiking in Oregon. The heat of the day brings relief from the swarming insects and we swim in the larger of the lakes, cleaning ourselves, breast-stroking out into the deeper waters away from shoreline, splashing, and finally just floating, face up, lungs full of air keeping our white bodies buoyant, drifting -- the view is a canvas of flat, brilliant blue, framed in the needlepoint of silhouettes -- dark greens and fuzzy browns, fir forest kingdom crowns.

July 29: Elk Lake

We walked a fast, early 17 miles this morning to arrive at the Elk Lake Resort by 1:30 pm. The sun is high and hot in the sky; clouds dapple the horizon. Early on we passed two northbounders who had come all the way through the Sierras. The first, Tatoo Joe, had the dime-a-dozen disposition to stop and tell how many miles he's been doing, when he expects to hit the border, etc. I was impressed, however, with his claim to have lost 70 pounds so far on the trail this summer. The second hiker, Eric, was much more endearing and we spent a few minutes talking with him, asking about the snow and the river crossings. His poles were bent and his hair bedraggled, but he had a big smile on his face.

We picked up another re-supply package generously sent out to us by my mother. Kindness certainly comes not only from strangers. Thanks so much to all of our wonderful families who have been helping us so much.

We are now sprawled out in the shade by the water's edge, goodies scattered about, water about to boil.

Elk Lake approximately marks the same distance south from the Canadian border that we were able to cover north from the Mexican border before flipping up to Vancouver ~745 miles.

July 28: Three Sisters lava flows

We walked this evening in a crimson glow. The sunset was a beautiful, tiered affair. Middle Sister and South Sister were illuminated, full natural red heads. Scattered treasure chest whisps floated to the west, silver lining turned gold. Black glass, Obsidian, crunched underfoot, flashed reflection at the evening lightshow.

***

The terrain was varried and new to us today. Coming around Mt. Washington, we climbed up and over the Belknap Crater, a great time capsule. Three millennia ago, liquid rock flowed down the slopes, finally cooling and cracking, leaving scoured tracks and thick, arid mounds to this day. Walking was tough on the feet throught the lava fields and we encountered more as we crossed Route 242 at McKenzie Pass and entered the Three Sisters Wilderness.

Many hikers are out today. We passed groups and horse riders and solo hikers right on into evening. Had a laugh and a sigh of relief when we successfully followed John's note to find Eliza's poles hidden near the first Hemlock, eight steps uphill, behind boulder pile . . .

At a register left by the road at McKenzie Pass by Meadow Mary (whom we didn't see in the flesh today although Eliza swears she saw her in Sisters yesterday) we read that another couple, Eric and April, had dropped off the trail. Their last log entry was short, scribbled, barely legible. It read: "Off the PCT, mile 1150"

[Eric and April" I wonder what did it. It could have been anything, really. Eliza and I both agree that, ultimately, if you've got other things that you are thinking about, other places that you think you could be, other options or obligations that are occupying your mind, you may be in trouble when push comes to shove. A few rainy days, a bad bout with the bugs, a sore sole or a seepy scab (I apologize, reader) and that's it. They're the second couple we've seen leave the trail in the past 200 miles. Another one bites the dust.]

For us, no mosqitoes around the dry, sterile lava flows today, at least until evening as we set camp here on the sandy flats just SW of Middle Sister's snowy summit.

***

I swam naked in North Mathieu Lake. The feet were sore and the water was perfect.

July 27: New shoes and the BLYC

Eliza and I spent the afternoon with John Meier, the trail angel of the day, in and out of Sisters and Bend. We showered and chatted with him on his front deck while tossing the ball around with his dogs after checking out Sisters and sufficiently coffeeing up. John works with the Forest Service heading up a fire squad in the Bend district. He plans on hiking the Oregon section of the PCT next fall so he was very interested to hear details from our trip. He took his whole day off -- his first in ten days -- to shuttle us around and make this potentially very difficult day of tasks completely manageable and almost relaxing.

A brief fiasco occurred when Eliza thought she had lost her wallet and she spent a half hour running back to the coffee shop, the Post Office, the sporting goods store, etc, asking for a little hot pink waterproof wallet -- people didn't really know what the hell we were talking about. When it didn't turn up, we went back to John's house and sure enough it had simply found its way down into the deepest depths of Eliza's pack. Disaster averted.

Bend was scorching, just as it was the last time we passed through, two years ago, late July with Kevin and Eric on a road trip tour of the state.

We listened to NPR news in his pickup while driving back from Bend. More war in Iraq. The general (Kesey?) heading up the coalition forces says troop levels may start lowering by next Spring. Everyone that was interviewed says no way. Rumsfeld in Baghdad, charismatic as ever. British hacker extradicted to the US for trial in Virginia courts. Meth laws being passed. Bombings in Sharm el Sheik . . . As bad as it all sounds, it was great to look out over the mountains and just take in the world over air waves.

Errands finished, we were back on the trail by 5:00. Eliza forgot her poles at John's house and he was kind enough to set up a drop-off point at the next road crossing, McKenzie Pass, which we should hit tomorrow.

We hiked in just a few miles and made a detour for the evening to the Big Lake Youth Camp, a Seventh Day Adventist summer camp, renowned to be very hiker-friendly, serving meals, doing laundry, holding packages, the works.

We had a brief, but pleasant visit. Rummaged through the hiker box, exchanging a few things, using their bathrooms and then continuing on down to the shore of the lake where we pitched our tent and ate dinner. The councilors were out on the boats waterskiing and wake boarding, blaring Christian Rock music (and I mean blaring!). Before long, I wished that we had just moved along on the PCT. Too many people around makes for a crowded camp feeling. Reminds me of college, going to sleep with a huge frat party revving up across the street. Thankfully, these Adventists had a curfew . . .

July 27: Magical Sisters

It's 9:00 in the morning and we are happily relaxing on the front porch of the Sisters Coffee Company. After a four-mile walk down to Santiam Pass from our dusty, buggy little campsite we've found ourselves into a world of wonderful, friendly, helpful people. First, a case of Mountain Dew left by the trail by hiker turned trail-angel, Strawberry, who left the trail for civi-life at Cascade Locks. Next, a can of cookies, Cokes and water near the parking lot at the trail head left by another, unknown angel. The day was looking up already. Then, after a quick stop in the pit toilet before hitting the highway for a hitch, we started talking to an older couple who right away knew all about the PCT -- they had just read an article yesterday in The Oregonian about "flip-floppers" on the PCT -- and offered us a ride without batting an eye. They were actually on their way to move a relative's car from one pass to the next who is currently section hiking the trail.

So, coming into Sisters, we were doing great. 8:30 in the morning, coffee shop in sight. I'm psyched. Eliza takes a walk to check out the PO and the sporting goods store. I'm here chilling on the porch. Next thing I know, she's back, big grin on her face, to tell me that she met a guy at the PO who immediately recognized her as a hiker, had spotted us at the coffee shop ten minutes before, and he offered her and me use of his home for cleaning, showering, sleeping, whatever we want. She says she needs shoes. He says he'll drive us to Bend later on -- his buddies own the gear supply there. Once again, unbelievable people going out of their way to lend a hand to the filthy, passing foot-walkers.

July 26: Blasted bugs

Eliza's poor feet have reached their limit today. Her sneakers, having thus far carried her over 900 miles along this rough and rocky trail, henceforth shall carry her no further. Tomorrow, as a minor detour and change of plans, we are going to hitch, first thing, into Sisters, OR, 15 miles east at Santiam Pass, and try to find her dogs a new home.

Hiking felt long today; the scenery, beautiful and varied. The summer sun, the heat, the wind, the cool alpine lakes -- it can seem so blessed out here. It can also, however, at a bend in the trail tread, turn into a living hell. The mosquitoes have gotten to be more than just a nuisance. They are a bane, a merciless predator, an unstopable foe. The villainous beasts have a method of madness. Their tenacity is unmatched; their style, unpredictable; their blood thirst, insatiable. I hate the damn things, passionately. And I fear for the future, that they will only get worse over the course of the next few weeks. Why is it that at one turn a flock of neck biters reside? What makes the relentless ear buzzers stay near the ear? What makes the back of a man's arm so damn desirable to the shoulder floaters? And why don't any of these madenning insect sub-groups ever seem to intermingle? It's always one or the other -- legs or arms, face or neck.

But again, I fear the future. One day, on the eve of their seasonal passing, perhaps, they will surely come together, posse by vile posse, to form the ultimate deadly man-eating swarm. I fear the day. May the snows finally melt away and the mosquitoes make their last lunch on human flesh. What do they eat other than people anyway? Do they suck on deer ears? Could they ever penetrate a bear's matted hair?

***

We wave goodbye to the beautiful peaks of northern Oregon today, and welcome the dry, arid soils of the central highlands. Mt. Washington and the Three Sisters have shown themselves this afternoon and we've come around the craggy cliffs of Three-Fingered Jack.

We are camped at an unpleasant angle here tonight. We're excited for the unexpected town stop tomorrow.

We saw two fawns again today. Startled by our passing, they bounded one by one from their trailside hideaway under a fallen tree trunk. I wonder how long a doe will suckle her fawns before leaving them to their own designs.

***

I've started shooting little movie clips with my digital camera. Tomorrow I'll send a memory chip back to my mother and hopefully she'll be able to view them.

July 25: Olallie Lake, Jefferson Park

Another beautiful Oregon summer day...we hiked a fast ten miles into Olallie Lake today, happy to have left our uninvited camp company behind (he said he was trying to make Timberline Lodge by the evening, a mere 45 miles north of our campsite; good luck, buddy).

Olallie Lake Resort turned out to be a really fine, secluded spot out in the middle of nowhere. The lake, spotted with row boats and lined with thick, tall Douglas Fir forest sits near the base of Mt. Jefferson, named by Lewis and Clark after the president in 1805 (?). We had forwarded a re-supply package to the little shop and rental office and much to our dismay, when we arrived, it hadn't yet arrived. This is the same package that we sent from LA to ourselves in Snoqualmie Pass, WA to an address which no longer even exists. Apparently, mail only gets delivered out to the Resort at Olallie Lake once a week, and irregularly at that. One more Postal Service blunder and we're out.

We hung our heads and started looking around the store at all of the exorbitantly priced junk foods from which we could choose this week's provision. $1 Ramen noodles, $3.50 bags of chips, candy bars. We hadn't really started to panic, though, when the blonde dreadlocked cashier lady came to the rescue just in time and pointed us toward the two enormous green plastic hiker boxes on the floor in the next room. "You guys shouldn't have anything to worry about if food's all you need," she assured us. She was so right. If ever there were a place to miss your re-supply box, this was it. We fully restocked for the next 4-5 days with what was in those boxes, from nuts and fruit to dehydrated meals and pasta to bagels and peanut butter and even tortillas. We're feeling lucky again . . .

We cooked ourselves up a lunch of dehydrated clam chowder mix with real clams from a vacuum sealed baggie out by the boat landing and had a nice chat with a young couple out for the weekend from Portland, watched the sun rise up over the lake, cleaned up, etc. These brief, frequent stops which seem to be more the rule than its exception here in Oregon are turning out to be really great for all of us doing this long distance hiking bit. They're everything a town stop can be (minus a hotel room, perhaps, but what would we know about that?) without the hassle, without the hitch, without the headaches. At Olallie Lake, there wasn't even a phone to use so I couldn't busy myself with e-mailing and whatnot. And then, two hours later, after a nice refreshing round of fudge-sickles, we were right back on the trail.

The afternoon took us up onto Mt. Jefferson's northern flank -- all volcanic boulder fields and the last of the nearly melted snow drifts. At our summit on a ridge overlooking the lush, colorful meadows of Jefferson Park below, we met an older guy, Derrick who had come out for the night. Smoking a cigarette, he wiped his forhead and sighed, "It's gotten a heck of a lot steeper up snce the last time I hiked this stretch 20 years ago." Mosquitoes were all around us and we only chatted for a few minutes, but he seemed like an interesting, kind person. As we parted ways after passing him on the trail a ways down the next slope, he gave us a portion of his summer sausage and a roll of crackers. We were touched by his generosity and his demeanor. We both wished that we could have spoken with him more. Again, I was reminded of my father, somehow. It's such a strange thing, how random strangers can make such an impression, especially considering the annoyance I had felt last night with the through-hiker.

This hike has been such a solitary experience for Eliza and myself. Maybe solitary is the wrong word. We never hike with other people. We avoid camping near other people. In ways, the tent, the area around it, the trees, sky, wind, views -- they feel to me like a home now. Lying in the tent tonight, we both commented on how marvelous a feeling it is, this comfort, this ease with doing what we are doing. Sleeping outside, going through our routines at camp, cooking, cleaning -- it's as comfortable as anything else could be, it seems. We aren't wanting for much anymore.

July 24: Midway

We walked the entire day under cover of trees in shadows. We walked and felt good. At noon, we passed a road which we had determined marks the halfway point of our trip, 1332 miles. We ate lunch just off the road and spent a while figuring how to fit in all the hiking we can before leaving the trail again in September. We are shooting for an August 31st arrival at Sierra City, CA. At this point, we will both head into San Francisco, from where Eliza will fly back to Ithaca for the week to attend two of her best friends' weddings. I will visit in the Bay area for the first few days and then fly back east myself for a short visit with my family and Eliza's family. We fly back to SF on September 11th.

But here we are for now.

This whole experience is just so long. To think, half way, these three long months, Spring to Summer. I no longer even think about the comforts of living in a home, of eating well and cooking in my own kitchen. I rarely even long anymore for the dark comforting still of a movie theatre -- we actually went to a movie in Portland and left early because it was just too
bad (there was a point where I couldn't have fathomed such a notion, coming in from off the trail and settling into the cool, cozy confines of a theatre and walking out).

The trail is easy for us now. It is what we do; we walk. The days are long, but we find ways to break things up and change the routine. Eliza and I continue to find things to dicuss. We have a closet full of silly jokes and games which always seem to keep us amused with ourselves.

Huckleberries are growing everywhere alongside the trail this afternoon. The native people called them Olallie. I enjoy the sound of this word. It sounds sweet. We first stuffed ourselves purple-lipped and then collected a cup or so to eat tomorrow morning along with our oatmeal. They are taking their revenge on our digestive tracts right now, unfortunately. The tent stinks something awful and we're both just trying to grin and bear it.

Eliza was a camp champ tonight. She cooked and set up the tent and let me be lazy here with my book. The mosquitos found us here as well and she's been out there all bundled up, working away, Zen calm in the middle of the evil insect storm. She even stretched out and did yoga while managing all the other tasks. What a girl!

***

I had nearly fallen asleep with my head on Eliza's shoulder when a voice broke through my dreamscape. "Hey there!" A clumsy, loud whisper. I stirred. Eliza held her breath. Again, louder, "Hey there!" I am fully awake now and Eliza calls back. Before we know it, he's got his tarp-tent staked and up just outside our own screen door, his mouth gabbing uncontrollably, talking Sierras and stats, miles and months.

And so ensues one more utterly inane, altogether mind numbing through-hiker conversation. Where'd you flip? How many miles you doing? Me, I'm pulling down upper 30s, 40s. You guys trying to go to sleep or something? Yeah, anyway, like I was saying, I flipped to Sierra City . . . and on and on. I fumed silently for the half-hour affair, while Eliza made polite comments of approval and encouragement. I felt like Woody Allen rolling my eyes, imagining myself rolling over to the audience, my back to scene at hand, and saying wryly, "Can you believe this guy?"

July 23: Mt. Hood to Timothy Lake

Last night I awoke to the light of the near-full moon. I was roasting inside my sleeping bag so I wrestled my way out of my longjohns and afterwards climbed out of the tent to take a leak under the stars. Hood's peak shone white in the moon's heady, ethereal wash.

***

I recall yesterday morning, during the rain, seeing a doe and two tiny fawns ahead on the trail, shrouded in an evanescent mist. The fawns were unable, it appeared, to climb the bank uphill off the trail, so the three of them trotted ahead on the trail, stopping around each bend to see if we still approached. Finally, the doe clammered uphill and the two fawns disappeared down the bank to our right. As we passed, dripping, under our umbrellas, the silhouette of the deer stood over us, watching.

***

The stop in Portland and these past couple days back on the trail have brought about a sort of realization. Unexpectedly, I feel that a door has been closed, something for nearly a year left unfinished, finally, subtly moved to the side. I'm not entirely sure I can put words to the feeling. Returned to the trail, I notice a calm resolution. I am relieved to return. It is a coming home that I hadn't expected here, now. Partly, I think that I was anxious for this trip back to Portland. Part of me had been longing for a life left behind throughout these past 9 months. I wondered whether I ever really should have left on that Amtrak train at all last September, whether I hadn't packed up and moved away from a real home in some vain pursuit of a mere pipe dream.

***

We hiked around Hood this morning and arrived at Timberline lodge where we enjoyed a cup of coffee and a stroll around the beautiful, historic building. Teams of teenaged snowboarders slogged around in their heavy, baggy clothes at the lodge, sucking down extra large sodas and eating cheeseburgers at 10 am. We scored a few items out of the hiker box and relaxed a bit before stopping back in at the upscale lodge restaurant to say hello to Heidi, a through-hiker whom we had hiked with in Southern California and who had gotten of the trail to make some dough. It was nice to chat briefly. She is living just down the trail from the lodge, still sleeping in her tent. Beats paying rent, I guess.

The afternoon was pleasant. We had a long conversation about the imminent collapse of contemporary international power structures. It's great when Eliza gets fired up on the trail -- the time just flies.

We found a campsite this evening along the eastern shore of Timothy Lake -- another location which we had visited last year during one of Eliza's vists to Portland, one we have been looking forward to. It is Saturday night and there are a couple of groups of other people spread out over the area here. Most seem to be high school aged. One crew of six or seven were making a lot of noise, cursing and throwng rocks and garbage around where they were hanging out. I walked over to survey the area for good tent sites (and to check out their provisions -- beer, rum, coke, chips) and say hello. A girl with big 70s style shades walked past me towards the cooler. "Hey," I said, "How you doing?" "Oh, I'm pretty wasted, man," she mumbled in terse response. Eliza, meanwhile. was feeling pretty rocked from the day's hike and wanted nothing at all to do with a pack of intoxicated teenie boppers. As we debated whether to shove on, however, the teensters made a move of their own and started packing up and heading out. They made a generally raucus and inappropriately loud and profane retreat towards the trail, but I didn't mind. As the last three walked by shouting, "You fuckers better get back here and help carry some of this beer!" I made my move. "Dude, my girl and I here can help lighten your load a little. Want to kick us down some brews?" I asked, affecting what I deduced to be the correct set of colloquialisms. And sure enough, the cooler man thought that this would be a sweet way of making his slacker buddies pay for leaving him to heft their leftovers -- give their shit away.

Once they were gone, we nabbed their spot overlooking the water. Unfortunately, we inheritted their smoking mound of broken glass and garbage as well. Ah, the kids from Gresham, what a conscientious bunch.

***

I've been up reading and writing and sipping on my cold cans of Icehouse. It's late and this novel is mighty disturbing. Lights out, he says.

July 23: Timberline Lodge

Beautiful day . . . just stopping in at the Timberline for a cup of coffee.

***

And we're walking down the line . . .

July 22: Lightning on the mountain

We awoke, after what sounded throughout the night like a thunderstorm just about to crack over our tent -- heavy winds, intermittent rains, distant thunder and lightning, everything booming - -miraculously, to a dry, cozy morning. I felt exhausted, like I could have slept another 12 hours. The first day back always does it. I got up and around at about 6:30. Outside the tent, the skies were still dark, ominous, heavy. It would surely rain at some point today. I was just glad our tent and packs hadn't yet been soaked.

It couldn't have been two minutes after having this thought that the calm snapped. It started pouring, quickly, and horribly heavy; this was not going to stop. We hustled frantically to get things packed away. Everything became muddy in a flash. And out we set, umbrellas pulled down low, the thunder booming all around.

Soon, but only for a few brief moments, we became afraid for our safety. Shortly after leaving camp, we crossed the exposed flanks of Indian Mountain, where we were startled by searing, crackling blsts of lightning, not too far off. The mist was thick and inpenetrable and it was difficult to make out the slopes around us. We both fearfully lowered our umbrellas momentarily, letting the rain come down onto our heads and shoulders. Our little lightning rods, however, didn't stay down for long. Soon we were back under tree cover so we hastily ducked back under our miniature, portable shelters. As long as we're not the highest thing around, we're safe, right? We hoped so . . .

The rain pummeled us for a solid couple of hours before letting up. We passed a number of weekend backpackers throughout the day who assured us that clear skies were on their way. We also passed one fellow through-hiker, Roni, an Israeli whom we had met at White Pass a couple of weeks ago. He was strung up between two trees directly across the trail in his hammock/tarp shelter. We ducked by and accidentally woke him. Startled, he called out from behind his nylon wall that he thought we were crazy to be out walking in such weather. He has a reputation, himself, for being a night hiker and I wonder if he would have been up and around yet regardless of the thunderstorm.

We took a gorgeous detour to see Ramona Falls. I am delighted to be here in Oregon's green.

Also, we crossed the Sandy on a narrow log; seemed pretty dangerous after crossing and looking back. The water was rushing very quickly and violently, too muddy to see how deep, though.

The day finally cleared up this evening as we ascended up onto Mt. Hood's western flank from down in the Sandy River gorge. I hiked much of the afternoon with our wet, filthy tent draped over my pack, in an attempt to air it out before having to crawl back inside tonight. Now, we're cooking beside it and the fading sun has dried everything fully. Hood's peak looms behind us, its base awash with the sun's golden gloam and vast stretching meadows of wild flowers. It is a beautiful spot we've got here to ourselves tonight. Much of the joy I take in doing this hike day in and day out derives from these restful, hard earned moments such as this -- the grandeur of the world around us, being here with Eliza, past and future disolved . . .

July 21: Three months in

Back to the trail, feeling pretty good about things, rested, happy to have been back in Portland for such a long visit. We hiked up Eagle Creek Trail -- an alternate ascent up out of the gorge, one which we've hiked a bit of on a number of occasions, notably with both of our mothers at different points -- and joined the PCT some 16 miles south of Cascade Locks. Tom, who drove us out to the trailhead, walked up a couple of miles with us before saying goodbye and heading back down. Before long, we stopped for lunch and watched groups of day-hikers and swimmers pass by.

Berries were in great abundance as we walked today. Huckleberries starting to ripen now and tart, red Thimbleberries, also some bright orange unripe raspberries of some kind. We have been looking forward to Oregon's edibles, but are surprised to find so many already today. We've been snacking on Oxalis leaves as well.

As soon as we set camp, rain started sprinkling down on us. The flies have been annoying as hell and now this rain. Sunny and hot all week in the city and now the clouds close in on us. Just like Hellkat said. That's the way the world goes round. Sleep will be heavy tonight. The air is warm, humid. I'm toast.

***

Three months to the day have passed since we set out from Mexico on this trail. What has changed? How are we doing?

July 21: Leaving again

We are leaving today. Yesterday morning, we finished up all our errands -- boxing up food, packaging resupply containers, sorting through our bounce box, showered, shaved, ready to go. Then, we sat down and realized that we could finally just relax. So we did, and stayed another day. We spent a lazy afternoon laying around in Irving Park, eating ice cream, then later we cooked veggies for dinner for Tom and Joe back at the house. Now, it's Thursday. The brief break has turned into four solid days. When Tom comes down we'll pile into his little brown pick-up and, by way of some delectable coffee shop, make our way east and return our bodies and minds to the trail at Eagle Creek.

July 18-20: Hot Rose City

Being back in Portland these past couple of days has been a treat. We've visited to our hearts' content all the old streets, a bar or two, friends and old co-workers. The sun has been blazing and the streets have been simmering in the city. The old neighborhood around Mississippi continues to boom, gentrification's funky flag plastered on all the telephone poles between signs for Saving the World and Sexy Cabaret shows downtown at the Sinferno, blowing in the wind, hanging indolently on recycled cobb walls of the newly remodeled building convergence community center, coffee-stained, homespun emblems of bicycle wheels and shiny dollar signs wrought into a steel worker's artisan montage along the sidewalk.

Tomorrow, we'll load our belongings back up onto our backs and head up the Eagle Creek trail up towards Timberline Lodge and the PCT on Mt. Hood.

One more cup of coffee for the road. It's getting late and I am the only one up here at the house. My legs are sore from biking around town this afternoon. I spun down through the busy afternoon traffic to see Dan and Lacy, now running the show over at the Habitat ReStore. They were filthy and happy and we shared a smile and were positive and mutually respectful each others' situations, plans, space, etc. It's just comfort coming through -- or a sense of ease that comes when people are genuinely happy to see one another. I then spun wheels over the Burnside Bridge and made a quick stop at REI before tearing back down towards the Willamette River and making my way over the Broadway Bridge, turning north up the old familiar route on Williams in North Portland. In a flash we'll be gone and this place will feel so distant and golden again. It took minutes to find the old headspace here, the old feeling and the insularity, the ease and the quiet dissatisfaction. What a trip.

If the job I am hoping to land in Seattle doesn't pan out, I would bet on very strong odds that Eliza and myself might just find our ways back to Portland by early next year. It's a tough prospect to turn down.

I chopped my own hair tonight, struggling and butchering in front of a bathroom mirror. Eliza delivered on clean up, thankfully, fixing my hipster biker dyke do, and pulling off a sharp, clean presidential look, all said and done.

Franz joined Jaimi and Erika and Eliza and me at Amnesia Brewing Co. for beers yesterday at happy hour. I couldn't remember for the life of me what the place was called before getting over there again. He is doing well. Writing. Working for the city doing environmental type jobs, setting things up for volunteers, I presume, fixing things, driving a truck. I wonder what he really does . . . We had a nice evening, culminating with a quiet tapering off at the White Eagle. Little Sue and Lynne Conover sang sweet songs, old ones and some new. It was nice. The bar is so old with its brick walls and old style gas lamp fixtures burning up above the southern side row of tables and stage. Dawn was waiting for us when we arrived. Eliza and I were late already and walked in just ahead of Tom who has been working like a madman. He seems very driven these days, unconventionally trying to build himself a life nitch out of hobbies and an interest in aesthethics and beauty and nature and manual, hard labor. He is out now, after 1 am, painting a ceiling mural for an employer who couldn't wait.

The mural is to be of a cloudy, blue sky. It is a nice image, really. Tom, up on a step ladder, setting his own sign among the ethereal blues.

Climbing.

>> Mts.Hood and Jefferson <<

>> pic pic pic <<

She's singing in the rain . . .He's shunning all the rain.We'll miss Washington's beautiful lakelands.
Crossing the Bridge of the Gods into Oregon. Home again.

>> pics <<

Expertly built, truly waterproof shelter, constructed in rain strorm.

Rainier National Park.
Mt. Adams, red and rosy. South of Goat Rocks Wilderness.
Revelling in the trailside magic. Look at all of those wrappers.
Chug.
Eliza tells Mt Adams what's up.

>> Mountains are us <<

Mt Adams . . . the PCT
Colorful Koalakins
Greeeen
Greeeeeener
Posin' again at the knife's edge Goat Rocks

>> Looking at Rainier <<

Wolf howling at big mountain, silently in his head.

>> More from WA <<

Indian creek. Eliza with work face.
They're attacking! They're attacking!!!
Foot loose and fancy free.

The Dinsmores and us.
You sanitized this after you last used it, right?

>> Shots from Washington <<

Goofing around on the rocks at English Bay in Vancouver, BC.

Wolf, being a poser. Here, with gargantuan, distant Rainier.

The meandering, swift Napeequa. We had no idea what we were heading towards.
Eliza greets the morning sun. Waterfall crashes behind her uncaptured.

>> Flexin' <<

Eliza flexes it at the border. Girl's got guns -- and guts, I've learned -- let me tell you.

July 17

I am awake early. It is a windy morning up on this ridge. The sun is up, a golden globe illuminating the sky brilliantly, softly. We are sheltered somewhat from the gusting wind by a small patch of short fir trees. The sound of the blowing gales is great, though, like we are at sea or on the coast. The Columbia River Gorge is visible from the saddle just north of our camp. It is a beautiful sight -- such a wide, heavy blue. The steep walls rise up to cliff faces and summit themselves at a lush rolling green. Mt. Hood stands over it all, the lonely mountain looming, looking down over Dale...

I enjoy this time of the morning. Eliza invariably keeps sleeping, hungry for rest. I come to surface usually at around 5:00 or a little after, take a look around, boil some water for coffee or hot chocolate, prop myself on my elbows and look out the open tent flap at the dew on the ground or the sunlight spackling the flora. Today I have been reading. I picked up a novel in Trout Lake -- Robert Stone's 1975 National Book Award winning "Dog Soldiers." It has a sordid appeal to it; America, the world in turmoil; it fits the mold of what I've come to understand the Vietnam War era in the states as well as on the Front as being like. Profiteering, drugs, music, etc.

Today, we have only 12 miles or so to walk, downhill into the gorge and across the river on the Bridge of the Gods:

Home again!

***

We hit town at around noon. It is beautiful and hot. We are so excited to finally be in Oregon.

Now: On to Portland.

July 16

Trail Magic, glorious and uplifting -- an offering from those not here -- sweet, calorie-packed salvation. Eliza collapsed on the ground near the cooler on the verge of tears. We pulled out a moist register log and started catching up with the progress of our fellow hikers, meanwhile gorging on Home Run pies and Budweiser. I find the dates and times of passage equally interesting as the short, silly remarks of gratitude which people make. This is the first stocked trail cache we've come across since the Anderson's Oasis at Mile 450 in Southern CA. It is such a welcome source of excitement and comfort right now.

A good day of hiking. Eliza and I have walked a great deal in silence lately, singing to ourselves, humming, thinking silently at a sizeable distance from one another. Early on, this day felt like yesterday -- slow and dragging -- but by late afternoon, we had both picked up the pace and were moving unconsciously, enjoying great views of the surrounding mountains, feeling none of the foot and joint pains, fatigue.

***

Tonight will be our last night spent in Washington. It is exciting to have passed over an entire state. It took us just over three weeks, 508 miles. We are tired, though, and so relieved to have a few days off the trail in Portland. I have been looking forward to this visit, literally, since the day we left last September aboard the Amtrak headed east down the Columbia.

July 15: Lush lands and tired dogs

We have started taking our time in the mornings again. I have been brewing coffee with these single-serving coffee bags, taking time to read and write a little before rousting sleepy Eliza from what would easily be an endless slumber each morning.

Hiking was nice, but tiring today. Great views of Hood and Adams and even a few glimpses of St. Helens spread across the horizons as we traversed variously over exposed ridgetops and dipped down into shaded old-growth forest. The day dragged, however. We both felt fatigued and bored. We may have gotten a little prematurely excited about being "almost" to Oregon while still having over 80 miles to go after leaving Trout Lake.

We camped along Panther Creek after a long descent this evening. Coming to the bridge at the bottom of the drop we were greeted by the lush, overgrown greenness characteristic of the Columbia River gorge and the surrounding low valleys and creek beds. Tall moss covered Big Leaf Maples and huge cedars line the rocky banks of the babbling, shallow creek. We are exhausted. To bed.

July 14: Indian Heaven Wilds

After an easy, slow, belly-stuffing morning at the NWSA center at Trout Lake we were back on the trail by noon today. It is a fine summer day. We caught a ride to the trailhead, up the 14 curvy miles on Route 23, with a local transport angel, Doug Anderson. Two other section hikers were along for the ride as well -- middle-aged, retired, insufferably talkative and annoying people, mildly autistic seeming, with no sense of personal space, etc. Conversations hijacking our minds. This ride was the polar opposite of the hitch we had caught down the mountain yesterday afternoon -- back of the pick-up truck, hair flying, the vehicle taking these blind country corners at 60 mph; Eliza's bandanna flew off and disappeared around a bend, Mt. Adams looming overhead . . .

Back in the woods, we hiked a quiet, easy 20 miles before setting up camp at a miserably buggy spot near Bear Lake. I furiously filtered water, swatting, swearing, generally suffering way too much about the whole thing, as Eliza put up the tent. We cooked up a double serving of ramen noodles -- damn, those things are good -- and in the process I scalded myself yet again on this outrageously conductive little tin pot we use. Mosquitoes were the worst they've been, storming the air around us, going after knuckles and ankles, crowding for a free space against our vital, but often ineffectual, headnetting. Finally, we were safely stuffed inside the tent, sipping spicy ramen broth, staring out at the ravenous wildlife on the other side of our mesh window wall.

It was early still and we lay awake talking and reading for a while, glad to have some extra time off the trail.

We ran into a pair of coyotes along the pathway today. Two good sized canines came trotting down the trail towards us, maybe 30 yards ahead of where we were. I stopped in my tracks, alarmed at how quickly they were moving our way.

"Eliza!" I called in a strained whisper, hoping she would see them as well, and immediately they bolted, scampering backwards and then scattering one from the other down into the darkness of the forest. Eliza did see them. The run-in had an interesting flare to it, the way that they were shuffling down the trail, one after another. They seemed to be hiking, enjoying themselves, headed somewhere just as we were. It is different than, say, seeing deer on the side of the road, their lives imminently in danger, clearly out of place. These coyotes weren't transgressing or trespassing; the trail is of an order far removed from the concrete, the engnes, the movement of our natonal infrastructure. It is one of the most amazing things about scenic trails -- how exceptionally low-impact they really are.

***

Trout Lake turned out to be a great stop for us. Coming down from the mountain, it suddenly hit us -- Summer. The heat; the basking, happy laziness of sun on your face; the crispy, soft greenness of a cool shaded lawn; the heaviness of gravity, lying down, barefooted, thoughtless . . .

After sucking down huckleberry milkshakes and a pair of ice cream cones (yes, both milkshakes and cones) at the corner cafe, we hoisted packs and stopped off at the market where we chatted with Warner Springs Monty who was in town re-supplying and scored some cashews and a big bundle of these all-natural "meal pack" bars from the hiker-box. We then made a quick stop at the Post Office where we dropped some stuff in the mail in an attempt to lighten our loads a bit -- extra socks, waterlogged journal, books, trail guidebook sections, etc. Finally we strolled over to the NWSA Mt. Adams center where we were welcomed graciously by the Residential Coordinator, Chris Nielson, with whom I've been e-mailing, trying to set up this visit of ours. She was all smiles and very quickly showed us around -- you can camp over there, kitchen is here, help yourselves, there's the commons building with showers and toilets, computers, tv, etc, make yourselves at home -- and she said goodbye, she had an appointment, and we were on our own. The Northwest Service Academy, an Americorps-funded environmental service organization shares the space with the Mt. Adams Forest Service branch. There are about eight dormitory style residential buildings, a dining hall, an administrative building, some large equipment and vehicle sheds, and a whole bunch of open space sparsely filled with recreational items -- a volleyball court here, a vegetable garden there, a horseshoe pit, a low wire for walking between two trees, a whole fleet of bicycles. I had been to the center last year around this time for a weekend gathering, summer celebration thing, a sort of coming together of the two halves of the organization -- the other being based out of Portland and Vancouver, WA (neighbors along the Columbia).

It was really nice to come back this summer along with Eliza. The members were extremely welcoming and interested in our trip, but also were laid back and unobtrusive. We didn't feel like we had to entertain or anything. After a nice dinner -- they all eat communally, taking turns cooking, we walked over to the inn which opened down the road only four weeks ago. We had a couple of beers and talked to a few locals, as well as more of the NWSA members and had a nice time. Good music on the jukebox, good conversation, good beer (it's great to be back in the Northwest!) . . . what more could a couple a ramblers want?

July 13

Last September, Eliza and I camped one night here in the Mt. Adams Wilderness. At the time, we were getting geared up to start working on making this hike happen (it was a slow start at that point). I was packing up all of my belongings and preparing to leave my home on Williams Street in Portland. My sister, Sarah, and her, now husband, Nouru, were visiting and we had spent the day wading in some natural hot springs just west of the Wind River. That evening, Sarah and Nouru met up with friends in Hood River and Eliza and I drove our rental car up this way, past Trout Lake, and into the wilderness. It turned out to be quite a disconcerting night and we both showed just how fearful and weak-hearted we could be in the face of a vast, and sometimes very loud, great outdoors.

After setting up our tent next to the car, just off to the side of the dirt road we had been on, we debated whether to go ahead and cook or not.

"Are there bears up this way?" we wondered.

"Probably. Best to not cook, right?"

So we let the sun sink away and crawled hungry and unsatisfied into the tent. And that's when it started. Horrible, blood-curdling banshee-like screams came howling toward us from the distance. Carnivorous, angry ghosts were descending from the skies. Un-dead wolfmen had come to life (was it a full moon out there?). And there we lay perfectly still, petrified, frozen, unsure what to do, think, say, or feel. The terrifying unknown had us both by the throats.

I tried to play it cool.

Don't worry, I'm sure they don't mean any harm. They're really far away, I can tell.

I assured and reassured, but Eliza wouldn't hear of it. She had sat bolt upright. She was getting into the car and locking the doors. I insisted that there wasn't anything to worry about. She unzipped the tent door, let herself out, and slammed the car door behind her scurrying, blanket-bearing body.

And there she sat for hours, staring at the tent, ready to save me with a blaring horn and flashing lights when the moment of judgement finally arrived -- which, surely, it would.

Of course, morning came and we were fine. The coyotes, because that's what they were -- we heard some yesterday morning, those same squealing, awful howls -- never bothered us in any way but aurally. We took a short day hike after packing up, both of us entertaining the notion that this hike we had started planning just weeks before might not be the right thing for us after all . . .

***

We hiked down from Adams' western flank this morning, passing a few PCT hikers on the way (northbound flip-floppers out of Ashland, OR), descending comfortably and easily. The day is a brilliant, sunny summer day. July as it should be. Yesterday's struggle is left behind and our spirits are revived. Early yesterday morning we had entertained the idea of trying to push through to Cascade Locks by Friday night by pulling down three 30s and a 32. We both agreed, we could do it, let's try! We were destroyed by the end of the first day, and only a 27 at that. Today we decided that these plans we make are only as good as it feels to break them. With Mt. Hood appearing on the horizon and Oregon smiling patiently at us from across the wide Columbia, we determined that we would get that hitch into Trout Lake after all and make today a half-day. We had passed through and stopped at the corner espresso shop last year on the morning after our night with the coyotes and we figured we owed it to ourselves to round out the experience.

And here we are, bellies full of huckleberry milkshake, bare feet falling asleep on the green grassy lawn. When we rouse ourselves from this glorious state, we will walk the quarter- mile down the road to the Forest Service/ Northwest Service Academy center -- the sister center to the organization I worked with last summer. I contacted them earlier this spring and they have offered to shower us and feed us whenever we arrive.

July 12

An exhausting, long day. Very nice weather. Again, beautiful scenery. The Cascade Range's crown jewels are truly a sight to behold. But tonight, it's very difficult to appreciate where I am. We ate a lot throughout the day, should have had energy, but did not. I developed a blister on my left pinky toe, which I will pierce and drain shortly.

Oh, boy. On a day like today, you hope that it was just a fluke, that the drive and the strength to move and see and breathe it in and forget about yourself returns tomorrow.

The sun is setting behind a stand of fir trees. Mt. Adams' peak sits heavily over my right shoulder. We are camped on its shoulder at about 6000 ft. The terrain is very familiar and exciting to be in. We crossed the Lewis River's headwaters just a half an hour ago. Last summer I did work on restoring the riparian habitats on the East Fork of the Lewis down in Clark County. Tomorrow morning we cross the White Salmon River -- I can even make out its crashing rumble in the distance as I sit here beside the tent -- which runs south and feeds into the Columbia across from Hood River, OR. Tomorrow, we are sure to get our first glimpse of Mt. Hood.

I hope that we both feel better soon.

July 11: Goat Rocks

Today was the pinnacle of perfect hiking days. Billy Goat was absolutely right to rave about this section so. And boy were we glad to have waited the extra day at White Pass for the weather to clear. It was a beautiful, gorgeous, stunning day of walking in Washington.

We were back on the trail by 9am, bits of blue, cumulus-tracked sky showing through the dense canopy of the forest. The other hikers, all those who had been staying in Packwood waiting for this day to come for the past three days, were presumably back on the trail as well. We ran into a number of them and spent a good part of the day chatting, trading stories, passing and being passed. Eric and April are another couple of flip-floppers, whom we had never met before, and we spent a fair amount of time with them on the trail -- fair, in this case, meaning a couple of hours -- much, much more time than we've spent walking with and talking with anyone over the course of the last month. They were interesting and talkative and had loads of hiking stories to tell from all over. They were surprised to hear that this was essentially our first backpacking trip together.

The real excitement of the day came as we ascended up the side of Old Snowy Mountain and the McCall Glacier, traversing up a spiny backbone of rock over a windswept, breathtaking summit ridge. From the moment we left tree cover, the scenery was magnificent. Wildflowers were gloriously, dazzlingly abundant. The Lupine and red Indian Paintbrush and the dainty, purple Subalpine Daisies were to be found by the meadowfull. Snowmelt streams and creeks crackled and flowed with echoing, crisp resonance. The wind was howling and outrageous. And the views -- the views were pure, head-spinning eye candy.

Mt. Rainier is a hulking, huge mountain. What a majestic, towering fortress. I get a sense of the way ancient peoples must have fancied their gods; myths and legends would stand rock solid and sure footed on a foundation such as this. The weather for the whole sprawling region of dwarfed mini-highlands surrounding spins forth from its mirage-like helmet. The clouds themselves seem to emanate from its icy, sheer, armored flanks. Over our shoulder, close by, it loomed today, alternately clad in these passing, misty cloud forms; alternately showing off her mighty form in full view of our perch up on the Goat Rocks.

The climb took us up to and along a step, scree-covered crest line, which hikers commonly refer to as "the knife's edge." The narrow, potentially very dangerous trail weaves its way in and around a length of jagged, extended fingers which line the precipitous ridge. Steep, sometimes snowy, rock faces fall away on both sides of the gusty track. As the wind blasted and blew, we inched our way along the trail and across the few remaining snow fields. Finally, coming around a bend, we were met with yet another sizeable, grand view. Mt. Adams, the third tallest peak in the Cascade range at 12000 some feet (behind Rainier and Shasta, both 14000 ft peaks), stood like a lone rook waiting to be moved before us. No clouds hung even remotely near Adams. We were amazed by the sight. It seems that we have finally found our way back to where this whole adventure started. This is the Pacific Northwest that I know and love.

July 10,11: Finally found 'em

This afternoon we caught a ride down to Packwood, the nearest town at two miles or so west of here, with a woman from Yakima who had just dropped her fiance off at the trailhead for a weeklong hiking trip.
Arriving at the little grocery store, we decided we could use some fresh food -- carrots, cheese, candy bars -- and within five minutes a bearded guy comes around the corner of one of the aisles.

"Wolf?" he asks.

Huh?

"Bionic Dave," he extends his hand.

Ahhh, yes. we met in CA at the Andersons. He and his partner, "Strawberry", have been a few days in front of us since then. We have been reading their register entries. Strawberry has had enough of WA and her rains and is planning on leaving the trail at Cascade Locks. Dave tells us that there are a bunch of hikers in town, been holed up at the inn for days waiting for the clouds to clear out and some decent weather to move in for Goat Rocks.

A little while later, after we've polished off our block of cheddar, seriously wounded the loaf of bread, and noshed down two big, juicy carrots, we ran into a group of said hikers in the parking lot by the inn. Warner Springs Monty, Peace & Love Matt, Splash, Bubbles, a couple we don't know yet. They all joke that they feel like they live in quaint little Packwood now. Some of them have been there for three days. Tomorrow, everyone hopes, will be the day . . . we hope so too.

***

Back at the Pass, we've got to eat some of this food that we acquired from the hikers box at the inn in Packwood today. It's amazing, how much people throw away -- people who you might think would be just as hungry and calorie deficient as we are.

***

It's morning and we've just had our oatmeal. It's gotten its appeal back at last. Now, a cup of coffee and it's up the mountain we go!

Eliza's songs

TRAIL ANGEL
sung to the tune of John Prine's Dear Abby

Trail Angel, Trail Angel,
I'm cold and I'm wet.
This request may be bold because
we've never met.
Would you take us home,
Where is your bathtub?
My hair needs a comb
and my face needs a scrub.
Signed, Koala.

Koala, Koala,
I'll take care of you.
No one understands why
but it is what we do.
We drive you around,
we clean and we cook.
All we ask in return:
please sign our logbook.
Signed, Trail Angel.

Trail Angel, Trail Angel,
I need a ride.
No other driver will
pull off to the side
To pick up this hiker and
drive her to the trail.
Will you tell me the truth?
Is it because I smell?
Signed, Koala.

Koala, Koala,
I will pick you up.
You look so forlorn with
your thumb sticking up.
If that's what you need
I will drive you out of town.
But would you mind rolling
the back window down?
Signed, Trail Angel.

Trail Angel, Trail Angel,
I need a hot meal.
All I had today
was a little oatmeal.
I'm a little worried
I'm getting too thin.
My pants are so loose
Two of me could fit in.
Signed, Koala.

Koala, Koala,
We will get you fed.
Would you like pasta
or lasagna instead?
We understand that
you're in a fix.
Take a seat at the table;
dinner's at six.
Signed, Trail Angel.

............................................

WE'RE NOT THE URBANITES
sung to the tune of (We're Not) The Jet Set by George Jones and Tammy Wynette

On a mountain in Stehekin
I fell in love with you.
In a desert in Wrightwood
You said you love me too.
And it was August in Olallie
When I first called you my honeybun.
Stehekin, Washington.
Wrightwood, Cali.
And Olallie, Oregon.

No, we're not the urbanites.
We're itchin' from mosquito bites.
Our champagne and caviar
is river water and a Power Bar.
You won't find the Kennedys
eating truck stop amenities.

No, we're not the urbanites.
We're itchin' from mosquito bites.
But ain't we got love?

No, we're not the city folk.
We're hikers and we're pretty broke.
Our aperitif and chocolate mousse
is dried beans with cous-cous.
And you won't find a hot shower
in a meadow full of purdy flowers.

No, we're not the city folk.
We're hikers and we're pretty broke.
But ain't we got love?

July 10: Wondrous wildflowers

We have been convinced to take at least part of the day off. We camped last night along a secluded, grassy bank back behind the Kracker Barrel gas station here at White Pass. We had originally planned on moving on after stopping in and picking up our package, but after we got our new food supply all sorted out, redistributed, packed up, etc. we decided that we owed it to ourselves to take a load off and even allow ourselves a cup of coffee before hiking again in the morning.

At 5:30am the sprinkling rain woke me, cool droplets on my forehead pulling me from a sound slumber. It wasn't much, and still hasn't started really coming down, but we've decided to sit out the day's potential foulness here at the corner cafe in the convenience store, maybe hitch a ride down Route 12 to Packwood, where who knows what kind of interesting, unexpected day might unfold. But then, would it be unexpected at all if something strange and unusual happened to us? Have we grown accustomed to this bizarre life of treading lightly on our own sets of feet, of wearing our vulnerability and our unassuming benevolence like a transparent raincoat?

We had just finished our coffees and were literally in the process of hoisting our packs up onto our backs when two guys came in and said that, if they were us, they would definitely wait until tomorrow to ascend up into Goat Rocks. The high point, which we've heard can get pretty hairy when the wind and fog start up, is said by many to command the premier perspective, the grandest and greatest views of not only the Pacific Northwest section, but of the entire PCT.

"But who is to say that tomorrow will be any different, any clearer?" nags my need for speed. Eliza and I both, I am afraid, have caught the mile madness, the continuation at all cost craze, the big-mile brain bug. It is hard to stop going. We feel like we're wasting valuable time, like we'll never finish if we don't get this next 25 in before sundown tonight. It's ridiculous we both know. Sitting down again, we look out the windows at the ominous blanket of grey pulling itself tighter down over the mountaintops.

Everyone insists that starting tomorrow there should be four days straight of a nice high pressure front pushing through, bringing highs in the valleys of 90 degrees, 70s in the mountains. Well, we sigh, it looks like we have no choice. Smiling, we settle in for the do-nothing day . . .

It is interesting to think of momentum as we experience it. It's hard to stop moving, even though we're not really moving all that fast -- we max out at around 2.5 mph -- even though there is ultimately and absolutely nothing to stop us from staying put wherever we feel the need for a little taste of civilized, creature comfort, or just plain old rest and relaxation. Maybe it helps us to legitimize this long journey of ours. Perhaps we are afraid that someday soon we'll be 30 and still have none but the most obscure sense of what it means to commit ourselves to something other than the preservation of our own sense of unbounded freedom. But why then do people work so hard and for so long to secure themselves in the world of work and career and family and commitment. Money, success, security, comfort, high level, active, responsible participation at the head of a great and powerful society -- all of these things are important to me as well.

Choose a path, make adjustments where needed, veer right, veer left . . .

It is a fine line to tread, it seems -- a distorted, distant, deceptive line which may or may not lead where we'd like it to lead. I am thankful for so much in my life, not the least of which has been its variety, diversity, uncertainty, and change. Who can imagine or pronounce or describe the extent and subtlety of change that occurs so naturally to everything in this world?

I sat down here to write, originally, in order to record the names of some of the wildflowers that we've been enjoying so much these past three weeks in WA, but I find myself now looking around at everything in wonder, the same wonder here in this gas station as the wonder felt in a glade of dew-soaked blood red Columbine and velvet indigo subalpine Lupine.

I spoke with my mother this morning. She was relaxing, happy to have a day off after helping all week with my brother and Varuni and their 1.5-year-old twin boys, Arun and Kapil. I miss driving down to Manhattan and seeing them all every month, the wild boys growing so much week by week, changing so rapidly, speaking now, walking and interacting with one another. I find that I feel a kinship with the children just as I feel close and connected with the adults in my life -- of any age or rank. I guess it is my age, and what I am doing now. There is a sense in me that all people are accessible, reachable, understandable, from the youngest most instinctual, wide-eyed child to the oldest and wizened of great-grandparents.

Thoughts come and go. The radio has started to blare a little.

There are beautiful field guides here to look at, filled with vivid pictures of the wildflowers we've been seeing so much of and the trees we've been passing through and sleeping among.

***

Bunchberry ~ Cornus canadensis
Western Trillium ~ Trillium ovatum
Vanilla leaf ~ Achlys triphylla
Bear grass ~ Xerophyllum tenax
Tigerlily ~ Lilium Columbianum
Subalpine daisy ~ Erigeron peregrinus
Red Columbine ~ Aguilegia formosa
Small flowered paintbrush ~ Castilleja parviflora
Lupine ~ Lupinus

and many more . . .

July 9: White Pass, WA

Last night we worked hard in the cold drizzle at setting up our tarp over the tent by stringing some rope around a couple of tree trunks nearby, and using our poles and a dead branch to keep everything taut and tight. It worked brilliantly. I was proud of how well Eliza and I problem-solved together and so relieved that we stayed dry through the night. We cooked two dinners in the space under the awning of our makeshift tarp shelter after getting settled into the tent by 8:30pm. The rain kept falling, hard at points and fizzling out to a drip at others.

The morning arrived quietly and slowly. We slept through the alarm and got up and around by 6:30am. It was tough to get back into the cold gear we had shed last night in our frantic frenzy to get dry and warm.

We hiked under cloudy skies all day. The sun peeked out at points and we were able to get the tent and our bags relatively dried out while lunching along the shores of one of the thousands of little lakes we've passed over the last couple of days.

We arrived at the Kracker Barrel store in White Pass on Route 12 at 5pm. We were given the throw-away fried foods from the hot food counter, drank a cup of coffee and now we're off again.

150 miles to OR. Can't wait.

July 8: How I always imagined hiking WA

Today it came. The rain that wouldn't quit. The long, slow, bone-chilling process of making it through the day, of slogging endlessly through an impenetrable mist, of figuring out how to stop moving to set camp without dying of hypothermia, of just trying to keep our spirits up through steadily deteriorating conditions.

Leaving behind the Weyerhauser and Northern Pacific railroad land for the Norse Peak Wilderness, we also left behind all sense of visibility and any ability to see the land around us. This morning there was just a light mist hanging overhead, rolling over the now rocky buttes and cliffs around us (the last couple of days, the landscape had been low, green, rolling, much less fantastic than a lot of what we've encountered thus far in WA), but by 11am the droplets started falling. I had my umbrella out from that point on. I picked a kids umbrella up in Vancouver a few weeks ago. Today, it saved my life. By 4pm, there were sheets of rain falling heavier every minute.

Rain aside, we were in high spirits throughout the day. We talked often, of this or that -- details of something from the news, memories from childhood, an idea for a song -- and, we walked. Same old story.

Due to the rain, we started making pretty good time. A sunny day makes you want to sit and relax and enjoy the views, not to mention how much more dehydrated you become through sweating under the sun's watchful gaze. In the rain, the only thing to do is keep on walking. You can't see anything and no one is watching.

After passing a group of goat packers somewhere near a ski resort (around Mile 13 for the day) we were talking about the last day we had such a rain way back in CA leaving Warner Springs on Day 8 or whenever it was. That day we had no umbrellas -- we had just sent them on in our bounce bucket, not to be seen again until or vacation in LA two months later. That day was a cold day, much more so than this one. However by the end this evening, when we finally set camp and the rain was still pummeling us and we were both soaked through to the bone, this day had gotten to be just as cold and uncomfortable as that last one. We also recalled being passed early in the day by two ultra-light ultra-marathon runners, guys in their 60s with little GoLite umbrellas strapped to their shoulders, water bottles attached to their poles, short-shorts exposing big, tanned thighs. We were sort of frantic and upset that morning and these two guys come rolling by, all smiles, smooth sailing, not a worry in the world. Their names were Cat's Paw and Rock Head and we never saw them again. They were doing "thirties" right out of the starting gate. For all we know, they might have already finished the whole damn trail by now . . .

***

A couple of hours later, we've come over Chinook Pass and Route 401 where we jaunted briefly off-trail to a little parking lot where we hoped to find some hand dryers waiting for us in the bathrooms. It was really starting to come down heavily at this point. Unfortunately, this tiny cranny of civilization, tucked away as it was up on this mountain pass was one of the filthier, more revolting corners we had seen in quite a while. The bathrooms were regretably occupied solely by simple pit toilets, full of steamy, stomach turning splatter -- no toasty hand dryers for us today. Back to the rain.

In the parking lot, a guy calls over,

"Hope you guys enjoyed your walk! He he he." He chuckles looking up and waving his arm, in case we had missed the downpour occurring all around us.

"We've got a long way to go," we respond, shortly.

"Oh, really? Where you coming from"

"Well, Canada, most recently."

"Aw man, take it from a military guy. You gotta know when it's all around you, and like feel that it's God's love making it all happen."

What? I keep a smile on my face, false as it may feel. "Yeah, totally, man. We're on the PCT, it is a trail which . . . "

"Oh yeah, man! Like, the John Wayne Trail, or someting, right?"

"Uh, yeah, right."

"Wow. Like I was saying, it's like when a man and woman come together and form a third type of thing, like a trinity or something, man. I haven't got it all figured out yet, but I know. It's like, the Catholic Church teaches you to be scared of it, because, like, in history no one wants anyone else to know that knowledge" -- here he rubs his grubby fingers together the way one does when they're talking about bucketloads of stolen money --"knowledge is power!"

"Oh, um, we should . . . "

"And Brother," he turns to face me full on, "I know that you have dreams so vivid sometimes, I can see it in your eyes -- but we won't get into that right now -- you see, I'm trying to become a preacher . . . "

You're right, buddy, we won't get into it right now. Thanks for reminding us how freaky people can be out there. We'll gladly return to the freezing rain and man-eating grizzly bears in our endless wilderness home now.

So we did. Actually, the guy reminded me ever so slightly of my father (sorry, Dad, I don't think of you as freaky. But that's just because I know you -- oh, is there a lesson here?)

***

The next amazing thing happened just an hour later. We stopped for a Snickers -- and satisfy, it did -- at around 3:45. We got up and rounded a bend, passing a few retreating weekend campers, when who walks up but Cat's Paw! He recognizes us right away, pausing and smiling quizzically. "Warner Springs, and a day just like today!" I exclaim, blown away by the out of this world coincidence of running into this guy today. He said that he was worried about us that day in April and had wished he had said something to us about hypothermia, what to watch for, how to get dry, etc. He had apparently been asking about us since then, to find out what happened to us. I guess we were looking worse off than we remembered ourselves to be. He had gone north to Kennedy Meadows, then jumped to Belden, CA and hiked north from there since June 3rd. His partner had a death in the family, or maybe it was friend, but he dropped off the trail as a result. Cat's Paw said that coming north through NorCal and OR has been really tough, lots of snow, lots of rain. He had scars on his bare legs from falls he had taken through icy crust when there was no trail. He said that coming into WA last week, he had three days straight of sun and that they made up the first solid stretch without rain that he's seen since the Mojave. Oh, God, we gulped. Please let it turn out otherwise for us! We've been good, we promise!

***

It got cold soon after our run in with Cat's Paw. The rain showed no sign of letting up and we were worried by now.

July 7: Sun, glorious sun!

Today was a subtle beauty, a well-rounded reminder of just how perfect conditions can be out here.

We just came into camp at Louisiana Saddle in the foggy half-light of evening. Our after-dinner walk, one of the most refreshing parts of the day (odd as it is, like getting in the car and going back to work after coming home for dinner), took us tonight through the first low-hanging cloud of the day. Since the morning mists cleared, the sun shone the day through. I couldn't believe waking up this morning to a dry tent. Last night I barely wasted time hoping that more rain wouldn't fall. It seemed like the only sure thing there was left as I lay there, legs chill with damp drafty air, my sleeping bag lying limp across my poor, aching lap, de-lofted to the extreme -- it was but a damp, silicone-impregnated sheet liner last night.

We had everything dried out and sun-puffed by noon today. A cool breeze kept us company and assisted in our housekeeping, rain-recovery chores as well.

Eliza stared blankly at her slowly drying, blue-dyed journal, still deeply troubled by why this had to happen, why didn't she use a different pen for those three long weeks, why didn't she write more often and fill it sooner so it would have been sent home, and on and on . . .

I've lost a few journals over the past five years. I know it to be a terrible feeling, as if all the experiences and everything that had been recorded no longer existed at all; had never happened. The memories are falsified by time and the precise -- and hopefully genuine -- language of feeling and impression lost, vanished.

You can only try to forget about it. Easy come, easy go. Write more, starting now.

***

This evening we ate dinner at the Mike Urich shelter at the Government Meadows campground. We were shooting for it all afternoon as a good spot -- it had a creek running by, was at a good distance of 25 miles or so for the day. The fact that there was a shelter there didn't mean much to us. Shelters are more often than not pretty ratty place -- literally -- but, nonetheless, it was worth checking out. As it turns out, the Mike Urich shelter is no ordinary shelter. When we arrived, we were happily surprised to find a gorgeous cabin complete with wood stove, a clean, carpeted loft, and a stocked shelf with sodas, instant coffees, tea, and popcorn!

Trail angel, trail angel . . .

Some kind soul stocked this place and, aside from the swarms of mosquitoes, we were in a trail-weary hiker's paradise. I sucked down three cans of soda while cooking up our night's pot of mac and cheese. Dinner was then followed by JiffyPop popcorn cooked over our alcohol stove. What an idea!

The after-dinner walk followed and we camped at dark. Life feels good. Eliza and I are great companions. I feel such camaraderie with her today.

July 6: Lost memories

Part 2

After breakfast we returned to the sopping tent to discover that Eliza's journal had been water logged inside the plastic bag which it was held in. Two weeks of journal entries from the beginning of our hike had bled and run indigo, filling many now illegible pages with a vague, but rich, deep-sea toned watercolor wash. She has been extremely upset by this. We stopped a few miles up the trail under ominous but, for the moment, dry, grey skies, and she peeled back each page, one by one. Shots of anger and despair surged through her distraught expression with each soggy pull.

Later, we stopped again and she began trying to recover some of what she had written by reading and copying word for word her old entries into e-mail form to send to herself later.

The day dragged and we were both in low spirits. The sun barely cracked through the cloud cover. The scenery was relatively unimpressive. We passed across a patchwork of recently clear-cut land, owned presumably by Weyerhauser or the Northern Pacific railroad, and small stands of fir and hemlock, some owned by the Forest Service and some owned by the City of Seattle.

Tonight we pray for dry skies. My sleeing bag got very wet last night and has lost a great deal of its loft. No loft, man, no warmth. With no sun today to help dry my things, I am afraid that I may sleep cold tonight.

July 6: Hard rain fallin'

6 am. I am sitting back in the Pancake House, looking out at the pouring rain pounding the blacktop of the parking lot. We had a relaxing evening last night, reading and stretching at the tent. Before zipping it up for the night, we picked up a few things at the mini-market to supplement the next leg of our trip -- about 100 miles to White Pass [WebCam]. It wasn't much later that the rain started drizzling down over our walls. And since, it has never let up.

This is a new dilemma for us. Already, my sleeping bag is wet. It hasn't lost its loft completely, but it is very wet. The tent, which works well in squalls and windstorms does not hold up under a full night of rain. A roll against the shaky, soaked wall sends droplets dripping all over. Unzipping the door, even, is too much aggravation for the precariously suspended saturation on our ceiling.

So, we're wet. Our stuff is wet. I suppose we will eat breakfast first, hope for a break in the weather, then make a mad rush to get packed up and start walking again.

***

We have been marveling at our luck lately. Reading the registers, it seems that most people have come across some pretty nasty weather up here. Hypothermia, days without sun, snow storms -- Freebird, who started southbound just two days ahead of us, says that the weather had been miserable up at the border for months right up until the day he set out. And for us, it's been consistently clear, warm and scenic. We've come across half of the state so far with such luck . . .

We've heard a lot of stories of other peoples' hardships this season. I think it is fair to say that Eliza and I have had to suffer less than our share up till now. If it holds, this will be only our second day of rain -- the first coming on Day 6 or so, right after our brief stop at Warner Springs, CA. We heard yesterday from Preacher Jim, who is hiking with Billygoat and Jackalope, that Dave and Michelle, a British couple who have been pushing through the Sierras at the front of the daredevil pack still down in central CA, both got frostbite while up in the high mountains. They reported below freezing temps from 5pm through the night and on to 11am. They were route finding and map and compass navigating for 200 miles. Goddamn! Our hike is a walk in the park next to those kind of extremes. Scrubs, Smack, and Tomato (who we hiked with in Southern CA for a while) had to wait out a snow storm after a daylong rain in the northern Cascades in a trailhead parking lot restroom. In Scrubs' words, waiting out the night on the filthy concrete floor next to a belching toilet was better than dying of hypothermia. Last night we read Strawberry's entry here at the Summit Lodge register and she has had enough of the miserable weather. She will be dropping off the trail at Cascade Locks. I guess I shouldn't complain about a wet morning here and there. I can only imagine how difficult this business would have been if the deserts of SoCal had been as arid, scorching, and generally inhospitable as they usually are.

***

After a huge breakfast now. It's time to go back out there. There have been brief lulls in the morning rain, but nothing substantial. We'll be hoping for a ray of light throughout the day . . .

until then, two little feet will take us across the mountain.

July 5: One Thousand!

We are sitting now at a table in the Summit Family Pancake House in Snoqualmie Pass, WA, just south of I-90, celebrating the completion of our 1,000th mile with a round of juicy burgers.

We walked 19 miles to get here at around 4pm over spectacular lake country terrain with gorgeous, sunny views of Rainier all morning.

We are debating now about whether to camp on one of the ski slopes across the way (in order, primarily to ensure that we will be able be here in the morning for pancakes) or head back out onto the trail tonight.

We ran into our first northbounders today, a trio who flipped north to Ashland and will go north to Manning Park before flipping back down and heading south through northern CA. According to Billygoat, who was with them, we are just two days behind more than 20 other flip-floppers. We were surprised by that number. At the rate we're going we'll be catching them soon.

July 4: No fireworks tonight

We realized last month that we had done our math wrong when we planned this whole thing. We arranged to have our vacation with my mom in mid-June and be back on the trail coming south two months from our start date of April 21. The problem was, we would have only completed 744 miles by then, or approximately 1/4 of the entire trail. At this rate, we'll still be hiking on Christmas. We realized this and knew that when we started southbound the pace would have to be much much greater.

And here we are, doing it now. Today, we should be pulling a 30. We've stopped to cook now and will probably finish in the dark after another 3.5 miles. It is a challenge, doing this. My feet ache. I forget to take in my surroundings. At the same time, it is exciting. We know that we are flying. We see our position move in front of our eyes on the little illegible topos spread out before us while we break. 100 miles is 4 days now, instead of 5. That means less food carried -- or, more likely, for us, more food eaten over shorter periods of time. Have I mentioned that I have yet to shed a pound?

***

Dinner was aborted. First I lifted our fickle little pot and spilled hot water all over the ground, burning my wrist over the alcohol stove in the process. Then, after a fresh pot came to a boil and we started in on reconstituting a couple of Freeze Dried Mountainhouse meals that we had "scored" from the Dinsmores' hiker box, we had the unpleasant olfactory realization that these meals were simply not going to be edible. They were disgusting -- worse, I imagine, than eating dog food for dinner after hiking 28 miles. So, Eliza went about burying the waste in a hole somewhere off in the woods and I cleaned up and made us a couple of never-fail peanut-butter sandwiches on cinnamon-raisin bagels (this week, scooping from a double bag!).

The final leg took us into darkness. Two campsites which the editors of our data book had taken pains to include in among the other notable listings turned out to be nothing but sloped recesses just off the trail, so we passed them up and kept climbing, finally setting camp right in the middle of the trail, just before a big time engineered bridge which spans the roaring Delate Creek's cascading waters. The sound is tremendous, but nothing -- absolutely nothing -- could keep us awake tonight.

So, our second 30+ mile day is done. Bugs continue to be an annoyance on the trail, making it difficult to stop and rest. On a positive note, we were met at a bend this afternoon with a view of one of Mt. Rainier's huge, icy shoulders. This one is a giant, a sentinal standing watch over the whole state, it seems. Over the next 100 miles we pass right on by the great 14,000 footer. Soon, we'll be getting to Adams as well, and St. Helens, and Hood, and Jefferson . . .

July 3: Alpine Lakes

I was up early this morning, anticipating our scheduled 9:00 am trip back up to the trail with Jerry.

It was around 6:00 and I had a couple of hours to spare, so I poured a cup of coffee for myself and picked up a copy of The Old Man and The Sea which I had found lying around yesterday. I sat alone at the kitchen table turning pages, sipping coffee and I was able to finish it before anyone else in the house had roused. It was a good feeling to bite off a complete story like that, undisturbed, all at once, before starting my day. I enjoyed it very much. I appreciated the sense of passion in the characters, and the love shared by the old man and boy. It's funny: all I know about fishing comes from reading Hemingway, between this story, To Have and Have Not, and his Nick Adams stories.

After my reading, I hit the shower, packed, cooked up a couple of nice fatty omelettes for E and I, and then we loaded up our packs in the back of Jerry's pick-up. We said good-bye to Freebird, Shade, and Nomi and thanked Andrea and were off. Before leaving, I asked if Jerry wouldn't mind swinging by the restaurant we had eaten at the other night. I had books on the mind and at dinner two nights ago at the Cascadia Inn, I had noticed a shelf of used books which were clearly there for the taking -- a swap kind of thing. I had noticed a novel then that an ex-housemate Franz had recommended to me last year called Life of Pi, and wanted to exchange my copy of All Quiet on the Western Front for it. The WWI book is too much to handle out here. Walking all day, feeling exhausted, the last thing I need at night is to read about and dream about the horrors and tragedies of living through such an event. It is too easy to imagine the reality of it, or at least a snapshot of it. It affects me too greatly. So, I ditched it today in favor of something contemporary and colorful and presumably much less gut-wrenching.

Glancing through the new book this evening as we waited for our water to boil, Eliza laughed and said, "Jere, this is so funny. Listen." and she proceeds to read aloud the first review which is listed inside the book's cover. It mentions some of the novelist's apparent influences, and concludes that this work is most closely comparable to Hemingway's classic "foray into existentialist parable" -- yes, you guessed it -- The Old Man and the Sea. I thought that was pretty cool coincidence. Things seem to be in synch here around us these days.

***

But back to the trail. Reading time is scarce since we upped our miles covered per day . . .

Today was a beautiful day. We were back and hiking at 10 am. Lots of hikers and weekend backpackers out, enjoying the long holiday weekend. I think we probably saw more hikers today than anywhere outside of the first couple of days on the PCT when everyone started like a great big pack at Campo.

We entered Alpine Lakes Wilderness and it is really, really beautiful here. Lakes everywhere, snowy peaks, big creeks, heavy forest. We finally caught a magnificent, full frontal view of Mt. Baker looking up from the SE as we ascended up to Pieper Pass. We are both in love with the mountains up here. These are the American Alps. The bad thing, however, was that today the mosquitoes were unbearable. I finally used my headnetting and wore full body covering, despite the mild to warm temps. They were chubby bastards with good aim and they wore stripes on their filthy little abdomens. We are both feeling a little anxious about how much of this we will be able to take this summer. Would rain be better? we ask ourselves.

We hiked a good 25 today. We have decided to set loftier daily distance goals for the NW and thusfar, it is working out. There is little time for much other than hiking, however. I hope that this new book doesn't become a piece of dead weight in my pack.

July 2: Hearts of gold

The day off with the Dinsmores has been absolutely wonderful. Andrea and Jerry, a retired long-haul trucker and a retired truck mechanic, respectively, have opened up their home to us and a few other hikers here this weekend. And we couldn't have felt more welcome and relaxed. Andrea walked me through the house, pointing out relavent items -- the hiker box, the box of socks she had gotten donated from Thorlo, the shower, the bedrooms, the hot tub (!), the computer, the kitchen. In the kitchen she turns and says she wants to make it clear -- eat whatever you want, don't ask, if you see it, it's game. Unbelievable. But it was true. And I did. I cooked for half the day, making omelettes and eggs for everyone for breakfast, a big fancy salad and beans and veggies for burritos for dinner, cookies and brownies for dessert. It was a decadent day.

Along with being comfortable and relaxed, Eliza and I were both able to get a lot done in terms of the little, nagging things that come to mind throughout the week as we are hiking -- particularly within the first five minutes or so after leaving town. I spoke to six or so family members and friends on the phone, e-mailed a bunch, did my banking. We were even able to successfully track down another -- yes, another -- missing box which (this time, it was definitely our fault). I incorrectly addressed to a place which no longer exists. That's taken care of now.

This stopover at the Dinsmores has been great, as well, in that I feel again that I am out here along with a community of other hikers and of supportive, caring helpers. One other hiker was here when we arrived, Freebird, a guy in his mid 30s, a Yale grad, who lives in Hawaii and is a retired Wind Surfer. Now he just hikes to have fun. This is his second PC hike and he's done the AT three times. He had lots to say, lots of stories, a big laugh. We had fun with him. Later on in the afternoon, Shade showed up, a guy we had met in Southern CA -- ex-Air Force, Peace Corps volunteer, elementary school teacher -- along with a woman he had just met at the trailhead, Nomi, who is a Princeton alumnus, climber who has been driving around the country climbing since November. We all had dinner together along with Jerry and Andrea and a couple of their biker friends who were up visiting and celebrating their 10th wedding anniversary. At face value, we were such an unlikely crowd of people -- a bunch of Ivy League hikers, the leather-clad hog riders sucking down their cans of Miller (the guy wearing a dirty tee-shirt which read "I like big jugs"), and the proud, old truckers, holding court in their back yard.