PCT 2024: Windigo Fire

July 4-7; Mile 1848-1909

Day 21

The car thermometer read 87 when Dov dropped me off at the road crossing along Highway 58 at 2pm. The air was hot and close, and no breeze stirred the needles of the pine trees lining the path. I was back to tackle the next Oregon section after a short three days at home spent working. The four-day weekend offered the perfect slot in my schedule for the short 60-mile stretch, but snow still clung to the slopes above, while boiling heat (112 forecast for Medford) was on its way.

Since I would be tackling this section alone, I had brought my microspikes and ice axe after seeing recent satellite photos of the white stretches where the trail would lead me. The first obstacle was getting around Mt Thielsen, while the rest of the snow was gathered around Diamond Peak – though how much would remain after the heat wave was anyone’s guess.

I started hiking up the soft dirt track, and before long I reached a water cache. Two hikers reclined in the shade, and I hopefully asked if they were going southbound. “Nope, headed north. We have no snow report for you.” The two went by the collective name “the Golden Girls” and were in the middle of hiking the state of Oregon, having already completed California and Washington a different year. I left them to their rest and headed up the gentle incline.

After three miles I came to snow. At first there were short patches in the shaded forest stretches, but pretty soon I was kicking steps in the soft snow where previous footprints had melted out. The slopes were short and not steep – and the snow was soft enough – that I didn’t even need to use my microspikes. Poles and patience were enough.

I got my first glimpse of Thielsen through the trees before coming to the junction with the trail headed up to its jagged peak. I stopped to admire the view, plus the snowy peaks huddled in the distance: Mt Bailey, Diamond Peak, and something that was either Mt Bachelor and Broken Top or two of the Sisters.

The descent from the junction was a slog through more snow drifts among the trees. But thankfully the creek near my planned camp spot had some melted-out sections where I could gather water. I set up my tent beneath the looming Mt Thielsen and ate dinner with my head craned up toward the summit.

That morning I had received a text from Handy that the PCT was closed from Etna Summit north for 20 miles due to a fire in the area. With the snow melting and the summer heating up, I hoped I could finish my last three sections before any more closures affected the trail.

Day 22

I spent the morning slogging through snow patches in the forest that ranged in consistency from ice to mashed potatoes. Ribbons of “watermelon snow” – a reddish algae – crisscrossed the fields of white. Wind blowing over the snowfields felt like a refrigerator; otherwise the morning was already quite warm before 7am, and it promised to be a hot day.

After a few miles I reached the high point for both the Oregon and Washington sections of the trail, something I had not anticipated. Each of my make-up sections so far had contained some important marker: mile 50, the halfway point, the CA/OR border, and now this.

I stopped for a break at a beautiful campspot overlooking the snowy mountains to the south; meanwhile I could see smoke on the horizon to the east. Before packing up I tucked away my microspikes – I still hadn’t needed my axe. Descending into the trees, the trail led once more through patches of snow, and I immediately slipped and fell flat on my stomach. Back out came the microspikes.

For the most part the navigation was not too hard: there was a good boot path, the trail was intermittently melted out enough to see where to go, and the terrain was fairly level. But I did miss one switchback buried in snow and had to resort to GPS to find my way back to the trail. Suffice it to say, by lunchtime I was mentally tired as well as physically.

After setting up my tent to escape the hordes of mosquitos, I lay down for a leisurely lunch break. The sun had other plans though, and within the hour it had shifted so that I was roasting in the full sun. I couldn’t stay inside sweating through all my water; I was in the middle of a 16-mile dry section and needed to make my remaining 1.5 liters last until the off-trail spring in six miles. And so I hiked into the afternoon through clouds of mosquitos and flies that kept me hiding inside my bug netting.

The trail had a few blowdowns and some talus slopes, but otherwise it seemed young somehow. None of the trees were particularly large in diameter, and the tree canopy offered only sparse shade. At least the branches were green, a marked improvement over some of the areas I had recently hiked.

Once I reached camp I set up my tent and then began the long half-mile slog down to some pools with a thick layer of mosquito larvae floating on top. I went a little further to a pool where the water was at least flowing and quickly filled up among the thick cloud of insects whining hungrily for my blood. I was only able to rinse off one foot before the onslaught chased me away. On the hike back up I ran into the Golden Girls again, but they were planning to camp further along and left soon after getting water. The rest of the evening was just me and the mosquitos – and a woodpecker in a tree nearby.

Day 23

Despite sleeping above 6000’, I barely needed my quilt and woke up feeling warm at 5:30am. Mosquitos clung hopefully to the mesh of my tent, and I ate my oatmeal inside instead of hiking a few miles first. My head net and bug net pants came on immediately and stayed on until I crawled into my tent at the end of the day.

After a few miles of buggy forest, I came to a very short, fairly old burn scar. Sunlight drenched the hillside, the bugs were momentarily absent, and the silvery trees afforded views to the northeast, where the smoke I had seen yesterday continued to smudge the horizon.

After six miles I came to a water cache beside a dirt road. Five-gallon jugs sat in the sun, an oasis amid a relatively dry stretch of trail. I filled up and soon gave up on the idea of stopping for a long break since the insects were swarming. Thus began the big climb of the day.

After ascending 1500’ I was walking along airy ridge lines with views all around: tiny Mt Thielsen receding quickly to the south, Crescent Lake to the east, Cowhorn mountain looming just ahead, and to the north: Mt Bachelor, Broken Top, South and Middle Sisters. Yet among the alpine beauty there were also distinct plumes of smoke that looked alarmingly close. I sent a few texts to my mom to see if there was any cause for concern. With the spotty service on the ridge, I was able to get a few messages, most important of which was that the fire was 100% contained.

As I sat eating an early installment of lunch, a bike packer slowly rolled up the trail. I called out, and he started in surprise. We talked about snow conditions, the mosquitos, and our trips. He was the only person I saw all day until I got to camp.

After passing the trail junction where he had come up, the descent from the lofty ridge was covered in snow, and I kicked steps in the midday heat as the snow reflected the sun’s heat like a solar oven. I was drenched in sweat when I came to a steep section without any visible footprints. The snow was sculpted into thick walls above the trail, similar to wind-loaded snow drifts. As if that wasn’t enough, deep fissures gaped like mouths where the snow had melted through to the warm rocks beneath. I kicked my way across, carefully stepping off where the snow could hold my weight.

Much of the afternoon was spent walking through trees harboring armies of mosquitos. I put on music to drown out their whining, stashed my trekking poles in my pack, and stuck my hands inside the waistband of my bug net pants. I probably looked trussed up – if anyone had been on the trail to see me.

I was close to 15 miles when my legs slowed to a shuffle. I hadn’t taken much of a break all day, and as I spotted a flat patch of dirt in shade, I lay down with my feet up on my pack to let the swelling go down a bit. I was absolutely covered in mosquitos, and after ten minutes I gave up and set up my tent to escape.

Two hours later, feeling rested and replenished, I set out into the cooler afternoon air. I still hadn’t cooked what I’d brought for lunch, relying instead on snacks to see me through. By the time Summit Lake was shimmering through the trees, the insect frenzy stepped up a notch. I thought the mosquitos had been bad before.

As I walked through the trees, each footstep brought a shower of insects swirling upward from the undergrowth, like sparks from a campfire. They bit me through my permethrin-soaked shirt, they swarmed inside my head net at any tiny opening; the air was thick with bodies as I swung my arms in a feeble attempt to clear a path.

Relief came at last when I reached the dirt road to the campground where I was planning to stay. The din quieted, and as I reached the shore of Summit Lake, a gentle breeze cleared the air. It was paradise; a group that was packing up nearby called out a greeting and asked if I wanted some beer.

“Oh, hell yes.”

The cool lake water felt heavenly as I waded in to soak my poor feet. Simple pleasures – like a picnic table to cook and eat my dinner – were elevated to new heights in the shadow of the hellish onslaught I’d walked through to get here. While I had not loved (or even enjoyed) most of the day’s hiking, a beautiful campspot and fuzzy thoughts from two cold beers sure helped to cast the day in a positive light.

Day 24

As I woke beside the lake, I was pleasantly surprised that my tent was free of condensation. Clouds of mosquitos had adhered to the mesh instead, and I once more ate my breakfast inside to avoid their bloodlust. The big obstacle for the day would be getting around Diamond Peak. I steeled myself for ten miles of continuous snow based on trip reports I had read, and my plan was to hike the entirety of the section before stopping for lunch, no matter how slow-going.

Leaving the campground behind, the trail led past a series of stagnant, tannic ponds dotted with lily pads. And yet the bugs were surprisingly absent. I hiked for two miles through the cool shade before seeing my first patch of snow. There were some footprints visible in the ribbons of sunlight where the snow had softened enough to leave a mark; but for the most part I had to rely on the brief melted gaps where a familiar width of dirt would signal the trail.

The snow patches grew longer, and I had to check my GPS more frequently to ensure I stayed on track. The trail meandered all through the trees, and each time I stopped to consult my phone, I was engulfed in mosquitos. I took to hiking in my rain jacket to armor myself against the onslaught. Each melted patch of dirt was a breath of relief, but it also meant clambering down the 3-4ft bank of snow and kicking steps back up onto the next stretch. In short, it was slow-going, sweaty, frustrating, and exhausting.

And then I came to the avalanche debris fields. The path ahead completely disappeared beneath flattened trees, broken limbs, and a thick carpet of needles and branches that obscured the terrain of any helpful features. In the dappled shade the sun was intermittently blinding and distant, and I struggled past the broken bodies of the forest while carrying my trekking poles and trying to check the GPS map on my phone. The snow beneath the litter was slick, and I fell hard on my backside.

Inside, rage boiled up at the snow, at the heat, at the mosquitos most of all. I struggled onward, fighting my way up and down the snow drifts between the trees, reading the terrain for any signs of footprints or melted out sections of trail. As I drew close to an empty expanse of white ahead, my leg plunged through a tree well up to my hip. I extricated myself, took a few steps, and screamed. “FUCK!!” It was time for a break.

I collapsed onto the snow, placing handfuls of the slush against my armpits to help cool me down and against my wrists to numb the itchy bug bites. Once out of my rain jacket, my back cooled pleasantly in the gentle breeze. I had a small bag of Cheetos that I had been saving for a low point – one of those treats that I never want back home but deeply crave while backpacking – and I tore into them with relish. I chugged a bottle of water with an electrolyte tablet, and slowly my inner rage began to dissipate. The trail was finally above the treeline, where I could just pick a bearing from the map to follow instead of staring at my GPS. I began to enjoy myself, using my shadow as a compass: as the trail headed due north, I kept my shadow pointing left, and as it curved northwest, I kept my shadow along my left shoulder.

The trail led back below treeline, and I struggled through the sloped, melting snow drifts, slipping often. Suddenly I spotted a trail runner coming up the path – the first person I had seen all day. I stopped beside the trail as she drew next to me, her face serious and her tone grave. “I just wanted to warn you-” and my mind raced ahead: she had faced off with an aggressive bear, there was a new fire up ahead. “-that the next two miles are pretty snowy.”

I actually laughed aloud. “I’ve been on continuous snow for the past five miles.” Her shoulders visibly slumped.

“Where did you come from? Emigrant Pass?”

My mind was blank; where had I come from? Etna? No, that was a different section. I couldn’t remember what highway I had started from this time, and the seconds stretched out as she waited for an answer; finally, I blurted out “I’m hiking the PCT.” Really helpful. “Yeah, you came from Emigrant Pass.”

We parted ways and I wondered at my brain’s sluggishness. Was it heat stroke? I was sweating, my face wasn’t flushed, and I didn’t feel too hot. Mentally I shrugged; all that time navigating and searching for the trail through trees and avalanche debris seemed to have made other recall processes a bit slow, but I could spot the gap in the trees ahead that signaled the trail with startling accuracy by now.

Ten miles after starting out, my feet were once more on dirt. I stopped for lunch, drying my shoes in the hot sun and resting my weary legs. Soon after leaving my break spot, I heard someone call out from behind. It was another section hiker! “I’ve been following your footprints all day!” He had started near Mt Thielsen as well and was planning to hike all the way to Snoqualmie Pass. We hiked the next mile while chatting about our trips, the trail, our names – he went by The Hare as a complement to his wife’s trail name of The Tortoise – until he stopped for a break in a nice patch of shade. As I hiked onward through the trees, I wondered if I would see him again in my final Oregon section.

The miles sailed by without snow and navigation to slow me down, and I passed trees draped in moss and Nordic ski signs pointing toward Willamette Pass: my destination. Fifteen minutes before my rendezvous time, I spotted Dov’s Forester sitting lonely in the parking lot on the north side of the highway. He met me with cold pizza, the perfect treat at the end of a hard day. Soon we were zooming along the highway toward Bend, where I would spend the next week working remotely before setting off to tackle the last section of Oregon.