PCT 2024: Lightning Creek Fire pt 2

July 23-25; Mile 2624-2655 + 8

Day 35

At 10am – after two days of agonizing over smoke forecasts and trail closure maps and waiting for Highway 20 to reopen – my parents and I made the go/no-go decision for the section of trail that was open from Hart’s Pass to the Canadian border. I had planned months previously to meet them in Manning Park at the end of my journey, but now they were also going to drive me to Hart’s Pass the long way ‘round since Highway 20 remained closed for the Easy Fire.

After six hours of driving – and 10 miles of exciting forest service road along narrow, washboarded dirt with drop-offs in the 1000’s of feet – finally we reached Hart’s Pass. I gulped down a sandwich for dinner before taking photos with my parents, and then I was back on trail, weaving through fields bursting with flowers. The slopes were a riot of colors: purple, pink, yellow, white. The thin mountain air was fragrant with their scent, and the hum of bees was ever-present.

I had only 3.5 miles to go before camp, and the trail flattened out after a steady climb. Chirps sounded from the grasses above me, and three ground squirrels surveyed the mountains from their upright stances. They scattered back underground as I sailed past. I made good time, getting to camp around 7PM. The air was chilly at 6700’, a welcome relief from the 90+ degree heat in Winthrop. Soon I was tucked into my quilt, watching the sunlight fade from the azure sky.

My heart ached for the 30 miles I had been forced to skip -yet again- due to fire closures. The idea of reaching the terminus had a bittersweet cast to it from the knowledge that it wasn’t the true end. Someday the fire would go out, the trail would reopen, and I would hike those last 30 miles between Hart’s Pass and Rainy Pass. But if this long journey had taught me anything, it was to seize the opportunities when I had them. And so I was going to walk into Canada; I was going to see the North Cascades in their mid-summer, flowered beauty; I was going to finally reach the northern terminus and write the words I had kept in my mind since I stepped off from the Mexican border over two years ago. And that was enough, for now.

As I lay in my tent writing my journal entry for the day, I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. I glanced up as a thruhiker passed quickly by. “Hey what’s your trail name!”

He turned, and I knew it was him as he answered, “Rabbit.” It was the thruhiker I had met near Fish Lake, the guy who was doing 30-40 miles and had started April 27th. I had hoped I would see him again in this section!

“Remember the gal with bug net pants near Mt McLoughlin? That’s me!”

We chatted a bit about the trail and how he had only met one other person more than once during his whole hike. He would reach the border tomorrow on day 89 of his trip.

“So you did everything but got caught by the Easy Fire, yeah?”

He nodded. “I suppose you also got caught in it and will have to come back yet again, eh? I hear it’s the prettiest part of the trail though.”

I wished him well as he set off into the sunset, alone once more on his journey home.

Day 36

I pulled my puffy around me the next morning as I put away my gear. The air was chilly and clear and wonderful as I hiked along the flowered ridges in the morning shade cast by the peaks just above. Smoke clung to the peaks in the valley far to my north, the fire burning just a few miles east of Manning Park in Canada. The trail meandered high along the ridgeline, crossing a saddle every mile or so: Buffalo Pass, Windy Pass, Foggy Pass, Jim Pass. After crossing into the Pasayten Wilderness, it dipped back below treeline, and I descended toward Holman Pass.

After crossing the intersection with the Devil’s Ridge Trail, I climbed up through bright green slopes dotted with flowers. The paintbrush and heather offered competing pinks in vibrant swathes, while purple lupine hid among the blankets of yellow and white blossoms I did not know the names for. With the wind ruffling the hillsides, the jagged peaks thrusting into the bright blue of the sky, I felt transported to the Alps. My arms flew out to the sides as I wove among the grasses, soaking in the mountain views.

A campsite with a little trickling stream lay just ahead, and I stopped for lunch among the shaded tent spots. The first eight miles had passed without much thought, and now I sat more than twelve miles into my day without pain. My legs felt like machines, the bottoms of my feet calloused into stone, and I truly felt stronger now than I had been two years ago. It was a pity it was ending.

I cooked my meal alone on the mountainside, the flies keeping me company, and then lay in the sunshine in my black puffy to warm back up before hiking into the afternoon. Two backpackers crossed my path and said that a northbound hiker had dropped her sandal and had asked them to tell other northbound hikers to carry it to the last campspot before the Canadian border. My planned stop for the night was high up on the ridge above Hopkins Lake, about eight miles before the border and five from the spot they were talking about, but I said I would keep an eye out for it and carry it at least as far as my camp spot.

The trail climbed up to the stunning traverse between Rock Pass and Woody Pass, and there sat the lonesome Teva sandal. I crammed it into my outer pocket and hiked down the zigzagging switchbacks beneath Rock Pass. Clouds streaked the sky, plunging the basin into chilly shade every so often, while the wind whipped over the gap in the mountains and swirled along some of the cliffs, tugging rocks from the face and sending them clattering down ahead of me. I peered suspiciously up the steep line to my left before hurrying past the rockfall.

At the final switchback I stopped to fill my water from the trickling stream in the gulley. The mounting wind had me reconsidering my plans to sleep atop the bare ridgeline, and I searched ahead along the map for other camping options. Hopkins Lake, the final lake of the PCT, sounded like an excellent alternative, and I set my sights on another 20-mile day.

I stepped through Woody Pass, past a lingering patch of snow, and the wind’s full force smacked into me. I hurried along, pausing briefly to glance back toward the smoke coughing out of the Pioneer fire to the south. Massive gray plumes boiled up from the Canadian mountains to my northeast. I was surrounded. The westerly wind was the only thing keeping the choking ash and smoke from smothering the trail all around me.

The memory of the lightning storm in the Glacier Peak wilderness was still fresh in my mind, filling me with unease as the sky filled with feathery wisps that coalesced into lenticular clouds. The clouds did not look like thunderheads, and yet my heart pounded as I sailed ever upward along the exposed ridgeline. Finally I reached the high point, the beauty marred by my fear, and then I was hurrying down toward the treeline, toward Hopkins Lake, toward Canada. From here, it was all downhill to the border.

The blue waters of Hopkins Lake were clear and sparkling, but the cold wind howled along the ridges, extinguishing any plans of swimming. I found an empty campsite beside another tent, and I asked the two people if either of them had lost a sandal. Success! Joyous reunion complete, I set up my tent in the spot beside them and listened to the howling skies.

Only six miles remained between me and the border.

Day 37

My final morning was cold and gray, the sky doing its best impression of mid-September. I packed up my gear, casting one final glance toward the lake before climbing back up to the trail.

My legs sailed down the soft dirt past banks of fog creeping up the mountainsides. Drizzle fell from the slate-gray sky, and the brushy undergrowth was absolutely soaked. I donned my rain jacket and rain skirt – the first time this summer that I had needed them – and pushed on past the dripping bushes. At Castle Pass I stopped to admire the sign announcing the U.S. border with a little arrow. The Boundary Trail and Pasayten River Trail branched away up into the trees, but I continued straight.

One mile from the end a little pile of stones had been arranged into a large number 1. I thought back to the first mile marker at the southern end of the desert, to the required joke of “1 mile down, 2649 to go.”

Paintbrush lined the trail, its bright pink petals looking somewhat muted in the cloudy morning light. In the distance I spotted a thin line cutting across the mountain: the Canadian border. The trail switchbacked downward after several miles of walking due north, and at each turn my eyes strained ahead for a sign of the monument. The trees thinned ahead, and I walked into a little clearing with a sign welcoming me to Canada. To my left stood the four pillars of wood announcing the end of the trail. My eyes swam with tears, sadness and frustration vying for the top position. Alone, I set up a little rock tripod and took my picture with the monument, signing my trail name in the register and writing out the phrase I’d planned from the beginning, all the way back at the Mexican border.

Sitting beneath a tree as a gentle rain fell from the clouds above, I cooked my final meal and ate the warm noodles alone beside the Northern Terminus. After an hour beside the monument, I finished my lunch, packed up my gear, and stepped across the border – and into Canada.