PCT 2024: Lightning Creek Fire pt 1

July 17-20; Mile 2543-2592 + 7

“When I hiked part of the PCT in 2015, everyone said the trail would always be there when I came back.
People don’t say that anymore.” – Fixie, the woman I sat next to on the train ride from Portland to Seattle

Day 31
My friend Ann gave me a ride to the Suiattle River Trailhead late Wednesday afternoon. The air was thick and muggy, and clouds swirled above the river valley. Ann, Vivian, and I set out along the soft carpet of pine needles, listening to the steady rush of the Suiattle River far below. 

The forecast called for thunderstorms in the evening with little rainfall expected. In other words, prime wildfire conditions. To the north, the town of Stehekin had been issued a level 1 evacuation notice due to a fire eating its way along the shore of Lake Chelan. It was only mid-July, and yet the curtain seemed to be closing for the season. 

Ann and Vivian joined me for the first 2.5 miles, past massive Douglas firs and western hemlocks, and some sizable cedars. Vivian brought out grapes to share at the turn around point, and then she and Ann headed back toward home. Half a mile later, the storm began its sinister rumbling. 

A gloomy twilight seeped through the trees, several shades darker than the time would suggest. The distant rumbling was a countermelody to the chatter of the river, sporadic and crescendoing through the steady white noise. A few licks of lightning lit the shadows of the forest, and I counted the seconds in my head before the denouement. The gentle tapping of rain through the canopy slowly increased in volume, and a steady stream began to fall in earnest from the dark clouds above. 

A flash of white split the sky above; the crashing echo followed half a second later. I jumped out of my skin, fighting the urge to split and run. I was deep in the forest at a low elevation, not high up on an exposed ridge. But as a second flash seared the sky and reverberated through the trees around me, I had to fight down rising panic. Did I smell smoke? A moment later it was gone. 

I continued hiking, slowing only to pick my way across the streams rushing down across the trail. As I balanced between two rocks, a flash above made me flinch, but the count in my head reached eight before the accompanying rumble. 

After five miles I decided that I had had enough, and I set my sights on the camp site before my planned stop for the night. Thick raindrops spattered against my tent as I quickly pitched it in the damp dirt. By the time I had my sleep system all set up, the sky had quieted down, and just the swishing of the Suiattle River filled the twilight air. 

Day 32

I woke before my 5:30 alarm, and though the inside of my tent was humid and damp, the outside had dried overnight. The sky was milky in the pre-dawn light, and I sniffed the air suspiciously; no sign of smoke. Less than a mile later I reached the Canyon Creek camp spot. Based on the register at the trailhead, I was expecting to see tents, but the campsite was deserted. Three backpackers had hightailed it past my tent the night before around 8PM, and I wondered if they were the group that had planned to camp here.

Soon I was back on the PCT, retracing my steps from two years ago. I would have to cover almost sixteen miles before I stepped onto new trail. The thick forest cast deep shadows throughout the morning, and I followed the Suiattle River southeast far below Miner’s Ridge. At the junction with the Miner’s Ridge trail, I opted to stay on the PCT instead of looping around Image Lake and rejoining below Suiattle Pass. 

The mountainside was filled with gurgling streams and trickling creeks, and I never carried more than a liter of water. Without my microspikes and ice axe weighing me down, my pack felt light – a good thing, since I had about 5000’ of climbing ahead of me. 

Certain views tickled at my memory: the bank of the Suiattle River, a large blowdown with a footpath around it. I decided to stop for lunch when I reached the camp spot near Miner’s Creek, where I had spent my final night on trail. 

As I climbed steadily upward, the views cleared a bit, and I got my first glimpse of Glacier Peak. But something else caught my attention: a thin column of smoke was drifting upward from the near side of a ridge across the Suiattle River. I stopped to take a bearing: the fire was high up on Vista Ridge, right where the PCT continued south beyond the river valley. The fire looked small, but I warned every southbound hiker that I met. 

By lunchtime I had crossed paths with over twenty people: thru hikers, overnighters, casual backpackers out for a few days. It felt good to be home on trails that drew crowds beyond the forced march of the thru hikers. 

Wisps of smoke trailed high above the mountains, but the air around me smelled fresh and clear. At last I crested Suiattle Pass and began to descend. The view down into the Stehekin River valley was eerily similar to two years ago: a gray pallor hung over the mountains, although I could discern far more detail than I had been able to through the hazardous air of 2022. 

I paused near the spot where I had turned around, continuing a little further to a different boulder to stop and let my gear dry out in the warm sunshine. Something in the back of my mind knew what was coming. I pulled out my InReach to check for messages, just as I had done two years ago. And there it was: the chirp of an incoming message as I stared down a valley choked with smoke, a message which could only mean one thing.

“Rainy pass to Harts pass closed due to new fire. Default is now pick you up and go home.”

I laughed.

I thought about the words I had written the previous night in my tent as my brain processed the fear of hiking into yet another storm. My plans, months in the making, had been going flawlessly. The timing of Northern California had been ideal, the sections in Oregon manageable, and the fires and trail closures had followed in my wake, always 1-2 weeks behind. It was mid-July, over a month earlier than the fire that had closed the terminus to me in 2022. I had done everything I could, and I was three days short. 

In my head the gears shifted and plans rearranged themselves. I could still walk into Canada, but it was probably prudent to get north as fast as possible. My plans to spend a night in Stehekin – already wavering with the evacuation notice in place – were quickly replaced with a new goal: to reach Rainy Pass by Saturday. It would mean one 20-mile day either today or tomorrow, and these trails were far from flat. 
I hiked onward past towering peaks through what I now called Bad News Basin. Waterfalls sparkled in the sunshine, the slopes were pink with heather, and clear blue skies shone above. Snow fields still clung to the slopes nearby, and the trail was a ribbon of dirt through fields of jumbled talus.

It was not yet 4 when I reached my camp spot for the night, and I set about repairing my ripped bug net pants and drying out the rest of my gear. Another chirp from my InReach alerted me to the fact that Highway 20 had been closed from Granite Creek past Rainy Pass to mile 158. I would need to walk the empty highway toward Washington Pass to get a ride. The wind picked up after dinner, and I wondered what news tomorrow would bring.

Day 33

My plan for the day was to hike the long descent toward High Bridge, take the shuttle into Stehekin for a quick stop at the bakery, and then ride back out in the evening to hike another five miles. I was trying to balance camping far enough away from the Pioneer Fire near Stehekin, yet not too close to the Easy Fire burning along highway 20. Plus I wanted some pastries.

I hiked along rocky trail overgrown with foliage, wading through thick walls of leaves that came up to my waist. Thorns sliced my shins and branches whipped against my legs as I forced my way through. At the rushing Agnes Creek, the bridge had been washed away, but nature had provided a tree in its stead, and I balanced across the swift, cold water.

Eventually the undergrowth thinned out, and I stopped to admire the giants all around me. Massive cedars with diameters over eight feet clustered beside the trail; I counted four in one row pointing westward, with more ahead. My neck craned upward toward the lofty heights, and I ran my hand along the peeling bark.

Huckleberry and blueberry bushes lined the path through the woods, keeping a respectful distance. The trail led away from the shaded forest and climbed up along steep cliffs overlooking the raging waters of Agnes Creek far below. I met a southbound hiker who had come from Stehekin that morning. He confirmed what I had seen the day before: there was a new fire burning along Vista Ridge. But apparently the fire was only 500ft from the PCT, and the alert on the PCTA’s website said to watch out for embers rolling downhill. On the plus side, highway 20 had reopened.

After 12 miles I stopped for lunch beside a nice, smooth log. I cooked some ramen, but soon the wasps and flies were circling. I tried my best to shoo them away, but one determined fly went straight into the pot and boiled to death. I set my soup aside to cool for a bit, and the wasps went to town, pulling at the noodles stuck to the side of the pot. One fell in and drowned, and I had to scoop its body out of the broth. After fishing out the third dead insect, I’d pretty much lost my appetite and decided to just push on toward High Bridge.

My eyes lit up when I spotted the bridge ahead – I had only visited in winter while snowshoeing with friends, and I had looked forward to this spot in particular back when I was doing my thruhike. The waters of the Stehekin River were the same pale turquoise that I remembered, and I paused atop the snow-free bridge to soak in the familiar, yet unfamiliar, surroundings.

Two men sat at the picnic table outside the High Bridge ranger station. They were volunteers working for the Pioneer fire task force, and I read through their handouts to see if they had anything about the Easy Fire on highway 20. Based on the forecast, I’d be in smoke for most of the hike up to Highway 20 the next day. Which sucked, but I had replaced my ice axe and micro spikes with a heavy-duty N95 mask in this stretch, so I was prepared. The guys mostly knew about the Pioneer Fire and whether Stehekin would move from the current level 1 evacuation to level 2, but they shared their lunches with me, gifting carrots and gummy bears. Other hikers trickled in from the trail to the north: Lilo and Sweep, finishing fire closures from the year before, and then Lotte and Andy, two southbound hikers at the beginning of their thruhikes.

An old school bus pulled up to take us down the road to Stehekin, and we stopped at the famous Stehekin Pastry Company along the way. I loaded up my arms with food: pizza, spring rolls, pie, ice cream. Everything was delicious and free of dead wasps. After getting dropped off by the ferry dock, we left our bags in the shade beneath the porch and waded into the icy waters of Lake Chelan. The billowing smoke from the Pioneer Fire was visible just around the bend, so close that we could see the helicopters dropping water. The sky above was a deep cerulean when we reached Stehekin, but in the hour or so that we sat under the porch laughing and drinking beer from the store, smoke from the Easy Fire to the north crept its way across the sky, blotting out the blue with its unhealthy grayish-white.

Too soon the bus returned to take people back north. I said goodbye to the folks I had met, wishing them good luck on the trail ahead. People stopped for dinner at the Stehekin Valley Ranch, and then it was just me and Ron, the driver, on our way to High Bridge. A small crowd sat around the picnic tables talking to Stan Winters, the ranger that lived at High Bridge from May to October. They all hopped onto the shuttle, and then Stan asked if I wanted ice to go with the drink I’d brought back from the store. Ice! In the backcountry? What luxury. I said, of course!

We ended up talking for over an hour in the little patio behind his station; he had plenty of great stories from just the three years he had been staying there. My plans to hike another five miles quickly disappeared into the evening air. I set up my tent around 8PM at the High Bridge Campground and set my N95 mask out beside my pillow, ready for the next morning.

Day 34
When I woke the nearby mountains were smudged by a gauzy haze. It didn’t smell smoky yet, but I kept my mask out just in case. The trail led steeply up toward Howard Lake, and my legs felt leaden after the previous two days’ big climbs and descents. I tried pulling on the mask, worried about breathing heavily in these conditions, and it was uncomfortable – to put it mildly. Even in the cool morning air, the mask was like a personal sauna for my face. I took to wearing it whenever I had to breath heavily from climbing, letting my face and the mask air out on the easy descents. I still couldn’t smell anything when the mask came off, but the blurred views above kept me putting it back on.

I walked through the deserted Bridge Creek Campground, my original goal for the day before. The PCT camp area was very nice, a shaded spot among green trees with Clear Creek flowing nearby. After that the trail led high along cliffs above a ravine, Bridge Creek rushing past far below. Near the North Fork Camp I crossed a swaying bridge with narrow wooden planks and a few large gaps. Each step sent the ropes swinging the other direction, my weight offsetting the natural balance, and I was glad once I was across.

Hiking eighteen miles with 5000’ of ascent through late-July heat in an N95 mask is a special kind of hell. But by 9:30 am I had a mild headache, and so I began wearing the mask continuously. My face roasted and sweated, but each time I took the mask off for a brief chance to dry out, I could smell smoke in the air.

I stopped for lunch at Six Mile Camp, soaking my feet in the chattering creek. As I lay in my tent for a respite from the flies, a double-rotor helicopter flew directly above me carrying a massive water bucket that looked like a beach ball. The direction seemed odd, and I grabbed my compass to take a bearing: almost due west. So not the Pioneer Fire or Easy Fire; I wondered what fresh hell had started to the west.

The final few miles led through bushy areas with open views toward the peaks of the North Cascades. Somewhere in the haze lay Stiletto Peak, an old fire lookout site where I had hiked in thick rain clouds in 2019. Twisp Mountain and Banshee Peak, Liberty Bell and Cutthroat Peak: the familiar names were all wrapped in gray, their features just a faint outline through the smoke.

I reached the trailhead for Bridge Creek, about 1.5 miles south of Rainy Pass. Striped tape hung across the PCT, blocking the trail, while posters about fire closures covered the trailhead sign. However, the trail remained open north of Hart’s Pass. I walked across the highway to the parking area where Dov waited, and together we drove to Winthrop to decided my next move. One thing was certain: my plans for the summer – to hike all the remaining PCT miles – had once more gone up in smoke.