PCT 2024: Lionshead Fire pt 1

July 11-13; Mile 2001-2043 + 2.6

Day 25

My stomach was in knots as we left Bend after work to drive toward Santiam Pass. I had been monitoring snow conditions as much as possible given the few trip reports I could find on Facebook and in the FarOut app I used for navigation on trail.

(mile 2014): Expect agonizingly slow, steep and dangerous snow drifts for the next 9+ miles.

(mile 2017): There’s a cornice you have to punch through to get to the trail, find the path of least resistance and climb over it.

(mile 2018): Highly exposed traverse with no bootpack. Ice axe required.

(mile 2018): Not passable right now unless you make a significant detour.

I planned to stage myself at mile 2008, hoping to cover many of the steep snow traverses mentioned in the morning while the snow was firm. But I wondered if the camp spot I had picked would be buried under feet of snow.

We arrived at the trailhead, and I was greeted by the familiar sight of silver trees from an old burn. New conifers were starting to take over, some as tall as ten or fifteen feet, while the grasses and wildflowers along the path looked healthy.

I wound my way up the sandy trail, which appeared to be a mix of volcanic ash and dirt. After a mile I caught up to two backpackers that were doing a loop past several lakes. Sadly they knew no more about the snow than I did.

I continued up through the graveyard of trees with views toward Mt Washington and the Sisters. The path was clear, it was eighty degrees with a gentle breeze; the thought of traversing snow fields felt very far away. But after 3.5 miles I saw my first tiny patch of snow. However, I didn’t set foot on any snow for another 1.5 miles.

From there the next mile was a ribbon of white through the trees. I settled into the familiar rhythm: place my trekking poles, kick in with my heel and uphill side of my foot, make sure my foot is stable, kick in with the other foot, wait until that foot is gripping the snow, repeat. The terrain was very similar to the section I had just hiked, but in this stretch there was actually a well-established boot pack. I began to relax just a little bit. Tomorrow would be the crux – probably of the entire 500-mile endeavor – but at least for tonight I was on snow slopes I could easily handle.

I sailed along the snow-free talus slopes below Three-Fingered Jack, finding the turn-off for my camp spot completely melted out. Getting into the tent quickly was essential, as the mosquito horde was out in full bloodthirsty force. I had made a point of bringing more meals for this section that didn’t require cooking to avoid sitting around in a swirling cloud of bugs while I waited for water to boil. Gratefully I tucked into a pot of couscous and watched 100 mosquitos seethe in the air just beyond my tent walls.

The sun sank below the distant mountains, staining the sky pinkish-orange and the peaks a lovely shade of violet, while rocks clattered down the scree slope below Three-Fingered Jack.

Day 26

I slept fitfully, waking at 4:30 when the sky was still a deep, inky blue. For an hour I tried to snatch a few more minutes of sleep, until my watch buzzed its 5:30 alarm, and I blearily began to pack up.

The sun was hidden behind Three-Fingered Jack as I hiked along the scree slope past my camp spot. As I curved around onto a north-facing aspect, I faced the first of the steep snow traverses that lay ahead. About fifty feet across, with trees twenty feet below the trail, plus a solid bootpack – it was not a huge amount of exposure. My microspikes bit into the icy crust, and I placed my ice axe firmly into the snow with my uphill hand. The axe was a little overkill, but I had carried it 60+ miles without using it, and this seemed a good opportunity.

Once I was safely across, the trail led across flat fields of snow, and my microspikes crunched happily into the firm crust. The hard-packed snow was a pleasure to walk across compared to the field of mashed potatoes this would become at high noon.

At the saddle ahead I was treated to a delightful view of Three-Fingered Jack’s north face: a spectacular craggy peak shot through with bands of red rock. The switchbacks were free of snow, and I marveled at the views as I wound my way downward.

Before long I was back on flat expanses of snow, with just enough sections of clear trail between to mean I was constantly putting my microspikes back on after taking them off. But after an hour I entered a long stretch of warm, sunny trail leading right through the old burn scar. I wove through acres of lifeless trees stripped of their bark and glowing silver against the cerulean sky. Blowdowns dotted the hillsides, but the years had worn away the rough surface and branches, leaving behind smooth logs that were easy to slide over without ripping my legs into a bloody mess.

Everywhere I looked, the flanks of the mountains were stripped down to the ghostly trees, a pale gray pallor against the dark green of the unburned stretches. I wondered at the scope of the destruction.

I paused at Rockpile Lake to filter water and have a snack. Any thoughts of swimming were quickly banished by the sight of thick chunks of ice along the rim. Soon after my break I arrived at several snow traverses leading up to a stunning view of Mt Jefferson. Its perfect stratovolcanic shape rivaled the peaks of my home state in grandeur, and I began to think that perhaps this section was my favorite part of the Oregon PCT. The trail led past mountains of fiery red rock contrasting beautifully with the glare of the snow fields and the dark green of the pine trees. The snow patches that had filled me with dread were easily dispatched with microspikes and trekking poles. And there were plenty of people on the trail: section hikers, backpackers, folks finishing fire closures like me.

After ten miles of fun I came to the long, steep snow traverse that actually had some exposure. Falling here would mean a long skid down icy snow to the rocks and trees below. The snow was firm but beginning to soften, and my microspikes held fast with each step. Bringing my ice axe had been the right call, and I fell into the familiar pattern of walking in balance. Compared to the other section hikers I’d met who had crossed this traverse with just trekking poles, I was doing it on easy mode.

I had gone about a half mile further before I realized that the difficult traverses were all behind me. The heat wave that had been baking Oregon for the past week had done a number on the snowpack in this section, but fields of flat snow still lay between me and my camp spot for the night. My legs were tired from kicking steps all morning, and I took an extended lunch break at a saddle with a stunning view toward Mt Jefferson, dozing in the pleasant shade.

The rest of the afternoon was spent slogging through slush and navigating through the trees. But this section had a huge advantage over the Diamond Peak Wilderness: there were fresh footprints to follow for much of it. A mile before camp I got water from Shale Lake – one of the restricted camping areas requiring a special permit. Meanwhile, my camp spot for the night was a flat spot just outside the restricted area where a five-foot mound of ice still covered much of the tent spots. At least it had melted enough for me to set up my home for the night.

As I lay tucked into my quilt, I was visited by a doe and a fawn, the latter’s bright white spots gleaming in the golden light of dusk. I shook my tent and they bolted into the trees.

Day 27

The campsite host checked in on me again in the morning, although this time the fawn was absent. Only a few patches of snow remained before I was hiking through a long stretch of forest free from winter’s grip. The trail soared high up on a ridge line with views down toward Pamelia Lake. I hiked down through forest thick with moss, the path lined with familiar flowers: paintbrush, lupine, columbine. I felt right at home.

At the bottom of the descent was a great ravine where the Milk Creek drained the snowfields of Mt Jefferson’s west flank. I paused to filter the clear water as the sun’s rays found their way around the summit and set the valley aglow. The creek sparkled and the grasses on the opposite bank blazed a brilliant lime green.

After a two-mile climb through recently-charred forest, I reached a view back toward Mt Jefferson. The trail continued down, and I thought it a little odd that I should climb all that way to descend on the same side of the ridge. But I was soon back in living trees and enjoyed the undulating trail and the break from the climb.

Half a mile later I met two day hikers and asked if they knew about snow conditions in Jefferson Park. They seemed a little confused by my question and said I had already passed it. I figured they meant Mt Jefferson and continued on down the trail and back into charred trees. After another mile I was still descending, and a little alarm bell went off in my head. I should have been climbing by now. As I pulled up my map, my heart sank; I was far to the west of the PCT on the Woodpecker Ridge trail. I turned around and began to climb back up the hot, shadeless burn scar, cursing my stupidity.

Several miles of burn scar awaited me once I was back on the PCT. I stopped at the first creek crossing to filter water and soak my feet. With the extra mileage I was facing a 20+ mile day, and there were miles of snowfields ahead growing softer every hour.

I marched along the path of dead trees, winding upward and over the snow-clad Russel Creek. A bridge spanned Whitewater Creek, its waters thick with glacial sediment, while snow lay across its opposite bank. At last I had arrived in Jefferson Park.

Snow patches persisted throughout the collection of lakes, and Mt Jefferson loomed above it all, massive and imposing, gaping crevasses visible from far below. I had a quick lunch before starting the 1000’ climb up Park Ridge. Snowmelt streams trickled and gushed, sparkling beside the trail. Flowers dotted the hillsides, and long tongues of snow blanketed the furrows where creeks usually glistened.

I passed a stream of weekend backpackers before picking my way up the soft snow fields. I kept stopping to glance behind at the immensity of Mt Jefferson, completely in rapture of the beauty surrounding me.

Cresting the ridge, I had my first peek at the distant Mt Hood, and I spun in place, caught between the two epic mountains. After a short break I stepped over the lip of rock onto the snowy expanse beyond, and entered the Mt Hood Wilderness.

Miles of slushy snow lay in wait; I slipped and plunge-stepped my way down the descent, adding in one very short and slow glissade for the fun of it. Mounds of rocks jutted up from the snow like islands in an archipelago. Keeping my shadow over my right shoulder, I headed almost due north past snowmelt streams and patches of heather. I stopped to admire the bright pink paintbrush reminiscent of the variety near Mt Rainier.

At long last I came down from the heights of ecstasy and sank back into ashy burn scar. No longer constrained by the snow, my legs churned out miles at top speed despite having already covered over 16 miles that day.

As I came to one of the final snow patches, I spotted a thruhiker ahead. We chatted briefly – his trail name was Moses – and shared that we were planning to camp at the same spot. I sailed off through the blackened forest, passing a trailhead with a bucket that probably contained a trail register or trail magic. But not even the possibility of trail magic could stop me now: all I wanted was to reach camp and be done hiking for the day.

After setting up my tent and gathering water, I headed over to where Moses had made camp to eat dinner. It was such a joy to have someone to share a meal with, and we swapped stories from our experiences on trail. Suddenly, the bandana he was using to lift his pot off the stove caught fire, and the clearing was filled with the smell of burning fabric. He swatted the flame out into the dirt, while I grabbed my water bottle, but thankfully it had been smothered. It was a stark reminder after walking through burn scars all summer how quickly a fire could start.