Day 155-157: Glacier Peak

September 6-8; Mile 2487-2550

Day 155

I woke to the smell of smoke. The weather forecast had granted a 2-day window of favorable winds to get past the two active wildfires, and I had squandered the first day by going less than 4 miles. I hiked down into the valley of smoke where the trail led past the first spot that I’d ever slept in my tent. Dov and I had hiked part of this section two years ago as a loop to Blue Lakes, and so I retraced our path that morning to Lake Sally Ann and Dishpan Gap. I had a nice plunge into the cold lake, but the smoke was getting worse. I needed to get further north. 

When last I’d walked past Dishpan Gap and Kodak Peak, the ridge had been full of blowing mist. This time a curtain of choking white shrouded the nearby valleys, obscuring the ranges beyond and blurring the world into pale oblivion. I hurried along the trail, blue sky tantalizingly out of reach to the northwest. Meanwhile the route switchbacked east toward the fires – I could always count on the PCT to take me away from where I needed to go. 

At last I passed around Kodak Peak and into the Glacier Peak Wilderness. Smoke billowed up against the ridge, seemingly trapped outside the wilderness boundary. I sucked in great lungfuls of clean air and enjoyed the clear views of Glacier Peak. 

As I descended toward my planned break spot, the light ahead took on a rosy tint, not unlike that of sunset. I looked directly above me; sinister gray tendrils were drifting over the ridge line, blotting out the blue sky above. My feet ached at the idea of going on; I had already hiked further than usual before lunch to outpace the smoke. Exhausted, I stopped for lunch as the scenery around me grew hazy. 

I was joined by two hikers that I’d seen near Steven’s Pass – Plants and E. As we ate our lunches, the conversation drifted to the northern terminus closure. We each shared our bleak thoughts from the past few days: how I felt I could no longer consider the trip a “thru-hike” since I wouldn’t reach the end, how they felt worse when friends and family members told them they should be proud of all they had accomplished. What their hearts needed wasn’t praise, but the unattainable chance to finish what they had begun. 

Eventually I climbed back out of the smoke on my way to White Pass. It seemed that every trail junction was adorned with the same signage: trailhead closed due to wildfire activity. The PCT was a lonely corridor through the swathes of burning wilderness. Near the pass I spotted a marmot staring despondently across the valley toward the creeping wall of smoke. It ignored my approach, its eyes focused on the distant horizon, until I could practically poke it with my trekking pole. At last it sauntered aside so I could pass; glancing backward, I watched it take up its post once more, and I wondered if it knew its world was burning. 

On the way to Red Pass, the trail led through beautiful avalanche slopes laced with bright red berry bushes. I descended through grassy meadows with undulating snowmelt creeks and views up toward Glacier Peak. The path dipped below the tree line on its long descent, and I followed a gushing creek through dense forest carpeted with moss. I crossed the milky-blue waters of the White Chuck River before reaching the iconic broken bridge and setting up my tent.

My back ached from clambering around downed trees with my heavy pack, and my legs burned from chafing against my shorts. But the blow downs were only just beginning; the Glacier Peak Wilderness was where Mother Nature laughed at the impermanence of man. Tomorrow I would cross Kennedy Creek, the site of a mudslide that had buried the popular hot springs in ten feet of debris and rendered the road unusable. The following day the trail would follow a long detour to cross the Suiattle River, where several bridges had been washed away into oblivion. This, truly, was wilderness – unlike anything I’d crossed since leaving the High Sierras. 

Day 156

In the morning I stepped across the sad bridge on my way through the mossy forest toward a series of glacial outflow streams. The first was easily crossed via a group of logs, but I paused to eat my breakfast at the infamous Kennedy Creek until another hiker caught up. 

There were three small logs lashed together, and beyond them the glacial sediment and rocks had formed a small hill, blocking the view of the opposite bank. After hearing about other hikers fording deep channels of water and opting to cross via a tree upstream, I assumed that on the other side of that embankment was a raging torrent. 

Another hiker joined me, and I offered to scout upstream toward the fallen tree. It was about twenty feet long, with a six-foot trunk that tapered to nothing near the opposite side. Grayish-blue water churned around the end of the tree; we’d either need to rock-hop or ford the final few feet. I opted to return to the first log crossing, and as we crested the rock pile, I felt like an idiot: the other side was mud and dirt. No raging torrent, no knee-deep ford through opaque water.

On the other side lay a tough climb through overgrown brush and a maze of downed trees. Often a small footpath had been cut around the blow downs, but occasionally the trail looked like an entire hillside had slid over it. I stopped at Fire Creek – mostly for a break from contorting myself around poking, scratching branches – and chatted with a hiker named Tigger. He had crossed Kennedy Creek the night before around 6pm, when a day’s worth of glacial melt had swollen the water level so high that not only my little crossing was gone: even the fallen tree had water rushing over it. Terrified, he had crawled across the log on his hands and knees while the frothing river raced just below. 

After filling up my water bottle, I began the climb up to Fire Creek Pass. It was a steady 1000’ of up, and the views opened up with every step. Eldorado and Sahale dominated the horizon, with the tiniest sliver of white still visible along the shark fin leading to the former’s summit. To the northwest a gray haze hung over the peaks like a sickly pallor, but otherwise it was heavenly. I cooked my lunch and was joined by Tigger and an older German hiker named Transporter. As Tigger shared the last of his boxed wine, it came out that he and I had attended the same high school! 

The three of us started the descent, our heads a little fuzzy from the wine, and barely made it a mile before reaching one of the prettiest lakes of the trail. Mica Lake glittered below, its Caribbean shade belying the fact that it had finally finished melting about a week ago. I stopped to test the temperature while the other two hiked on.

The descent was full of grasping, scraping underbrush that turned the trail into a tunnel. Tigger, Transporter, and I had a snack on the bridge spanning Milk Creek before beginning the long climb up the other side. 

The sun sank lower in the sky, and the brushy slopes were blessedly plunged into shade. Glacier Peak was bathed in the golden-orange light of sunset as I switchbacked up the mountainside. By the time I reached camp,  the evening shadows were fading into night. I set up my tent and ate a hurried dinner while chatting with two section hikers. Stars twinkled above in a clear sky, and I curled deep into my sleeping bag to escape the chill. 

Day 157

Frost lined the roof of my tent the next morning; it seemed the endless summer was coming to an end at last. It was hard to get moving in the cold air, but I warmed up quickly as I ascended a short rise. As I hiked I began to smell smoke once more and noticed gray clouds lingering above the nearby ridge. I checked my map; the trail was headed back into the haze. 

I stopped for breakfast beside a babbling stream in an alpine meadow, reflecting on how fortunate I was to be sitting here. With the end of my trip looming ever closer, I clung to these simple moments. In a few days my breakfast vistas would be replaced by the monotony of normal life.

After my morning musings, I hiked down into the smoke. The trail was littered with fallen trees, and everything had a reddish tint from the sunlight filtering through the smoky air. I could barely see the massive Suiattle River amid the haze. 

After a nice lunch break with Tigger, a section hiker named Birdie, and Shepherd – whom I hadn’t seen since the closure near Crater Lake – I entered a hallowed hall of old growth forest. Massive trees lined the trail, and a fallen behemoth with markings along its rings boasted 650 years of growth before its felling. I walked through the mossy forest in silent rapture, paying respect to the giants that slept beside me. 

At last the trail crossed the Suiattle River on a new bridge, and I began the final big climb before Stehekin. I planned to camp halfway to the top, hoping the smoke would clear out overnight. My throat was raw and my eyes itched after hours of hiking through the thick smoke. I considered sending a message to Dov to ask whether the smoke would be better in the morning, but decided not to. Instead I just set up my tent beside Miners Creek and ate my dinner in the fading light.