PNT Section 3, Part 1: Facing the Lionshead Bushwhack

Long Canyon Creek Alternate

As I embarked on the long road-walk to the trailhead, I looked back over my shoulder to take in the imposing silhouette of the Purcell Mountains. One of my favorite things about a thru-hike is being able to look back and see how far you’ve come. Sometimes it’s inconceivable that you’ve covered so much ground under your own power. But, as I felt the aches in my feet and hips with every step, I had no trouble believing I’d climbed over those rugged mountains. 

While not an official alternate listed by the PNT, the Long Canyon Creek trail was recommended to me by a local in Bonner’s Ferry. It would add about four miles to my route, but involved a more gradual climb through scenic old growth, with plenty of camping near water. As I scanned the FarOut comments of the next PNT section, I noticed reoccurring complaints of the lack of water. After the miles of exposed road walking, the mid-day sun made the decision easy.

Long Canyon Creek did not disappoint. The climbing was made easier by the droves of mosquitoes that assaulted if you dared to slow down.

The undergrown thick with ferns, and wide trunks dotted with mushrooms, was reminiscent of my current home in western Oregon. 

But the bear grass reminded me I was not in the soft, gentle hills of the Cascades. This was still rugged wilderness, and I was still in grizzly country. I set up camp that night near the water, painfully aware that I’d passed piles of bear scat no less often than once every half mile that day. I again dreamed of bears stalking my tent, and woke with the urge to eat my smelliest food first. 

They’re more scared of you than you are of them…

The next morning, I stopped for a break to soak my feet at the final crossing of the creek. As I carefully studied my maps, I didn’t notice that someone was approaching. Both of us deafened by the white noise of the water, the moose rounded a corner within ten feet of me before we locked eyes. He lowered his huge antlers, and I sat frozen. I was initially fascinated by how silky his fur looked close-up. Then I began to consider how vulnerable I was on the ground, shoes off. I barely had time to become frightened before he turned around and ran back up the trail. I felt his hoofbeats shaking the ground long after he disappeared from view. 

My heart was racing. But rather than fear, I felt honored that I’d gotten to see a wild creature so close. I later showed these prints to a local hunter, who informed me this was probably a juvenile moose. An adult would have been less likely to run from me. I guess this encounter was luckier than I thought. I sang at the top of my lungs until I left the creek. 

Climbing into subalpine terrain, it wasn’t long before I came to Pyramid Lake. It was surrounded by cute and secluded campsite. Were I not aiming to set myself up to start the Lionshead bushwhack early the next day, I would have lingered longer. 

Trout jumped for bugs and floated near the surface, seemingly unbothered by my presence. The site made me think of my fisherman friend from Glacier National Park, and I felt less alone. I continued up the rocky ridge above the lake, officially starting the off-trail Lionshead route. 

The first mile was easy rock-hopping. Then I got off-route somehow, and kept getting stopped by abrupt cliff edges. I repeatedly backtracked, tried to get my bearings, and finally just scrambled down a few ledges, throwing my pack down before me. The practice was butt-cheek-clenching, not for fear of my own stability, but because I knew my pack could tumble down further than I meant, lost forever to the landscape. 

I finally reached the top of the ridge. It was covered in still-clinging snow drifts, which created tiny, ill-draining puddles everywhere. The rocks had interesting circular patterns in them, which I assumed were fossils. I later learned it’s a rare type of granite called orbiculite, formed by cooling magma. I managed to find a dry, flat spot to camp near the entrance of the bushwhack I would tackle tomorrow. 

 As I waited for my dinner to cook, I noticed motion in the corner of my eye. Just fifty feet or less from me on the ridge sat the largest bear I’d ever seen. It’s hunched shoulders caught the setting sun with each branch-crushing step. It’s jowls twitched as it sniffed the air. It turned to look straight at me, and I knew for certain after meeting it’s dark and sunken eyes: Grizzly!

But just like the moose, the creature immediately fled. I stood from my perch on the ridge, and watched it lumber down the mountainside until it disappeared into the trees below. The site was almost comical- it was able to hurdle boulders and mow down young trees, but was running from me? My second wildlife in 24 hours solidified the idea that all the warnings and nightmares I’d had about being attached were probably unfounded. But, thinking about the damage our species continues to impose on their habitat, I could hardly say the animals’ fear was not justified. 

The Infamous Lionshead Bushwhack

There’s a reason the PNT is described as an incomplete trail. The most well-known interruption to the footpath is probably the Lionshead, a 6-mile (or longer, if you take the high route) off-trail adventure. You can either take the low route, which follows a creek through thick undergrowth, or the high route, an unmarked scramble across a high ridge. Generally, it’s recommended to stay low if you’re traveling solo, unless you have prior scrambling experience. I figured my short misadventure from the evening prior didn’t count.

The first two miles lured me into a false sense of confidence. Easy-to-follow game trails led me straight to the creek bed below. Even when the forest floor disappeared beneath dense vegetation, broken sticks marked the path preferred by the locals. But once I crossed the creek a few times, the game trails stopped. Or rather, they only led from the hills above to the creek below, but did not parallel the water, as I needed to do. 

Over the next four hours, I traveled less than three miles through mazes of willow boughs and fallen logs. Bear grass pollen and sap covered my clothes. I was occasionally encouraged when I encountered lonely cairns, and reminded not to linger quietly when I saw piles of picked-clean bones. Finally, in the heat of the day, I arrived at what looked to be a well-used dispersed spot. My GPS showed that the official bushwhack ended just 0.1 miles ahead. I survived!

There’s something special about a pool that’s just deep enough to submerge yourself in.

To celebrate, I took a swim in the irresistible pool nearby. I scrubbed off the layers of spiderwebs and sap, and debated my next move. I could either hike up and over Lookout Mountain, which involved a thousand feet of climbing, but promised nice views; or, I could head straight to Upper Priest Lake on a dusty and likely-exposed forest road. Neither sounded appealing at my current point of exhaustion, but I didn’t have enough food to dilly-dally. 

Rides > Road-walking

It turns out, fate would make the choice for me. I’d made a deal with myself near the start of this trail that I wouldn’t stick out my thumb (other than for required hitches into town), but if someone offered me a ride on the road-walks, I’d take it. I followed a well-used trail to a small parking lot, where multiple groups were preparing to head out to the natural water slides nearby. A man named Kevin, with his two sons in tow, noticed my pack and began asking questions. When I shared that I was thru-hiking, he excitedly told me about his own section hikes on the PCT in the 90’s. He then insisted I ride to the nearby camp store with them to get ice cream. As it turned out, this camp store was at the end of the road-walk I’d been considering. It meant I ended up skipping a few trail miles, but it was worth it to trade stories with a fascinating stranger. 

Over ice cream, Kevin and I compared notes on how the PCT had changed between the two decades we’d hiked it. After section-hiking just a few hundred miles, Kevin told me he couldn’t fathom doing an entire trail all at once. I was equally impressed by his tackling of any long hike prior to ultralight gear, and the wealth of information currently available on the internet. Despite our different experiences, we agreed that there was nothing on earth like a long hike. I grabbed another Twix ice cream bar before heading off. 

The trail around the lake was wide and cushioned with thick pine duff. The soft ground felt like clouds on my sore feet, and stretching out my arms without being whipped by branches was heaven. Riding high on serotonin and ice cream, I nearly missed mile 300. As I hurriedly made a marker out of pinecones, I was filled with gratitude that I had not followed through on my urge to quit three days prior.

I was not expecting the pristine beauty of Upper Priest Lake. Unlike it’s lower neighbor, no power boats are allowed on the lake, and only one corner is road-accessible. Most of the backcountry campsites I passed were nearly empty, though they were well-equipped with outhouses and picnic tables. The water was clear and inviting, and I couldn’t help but take my second swim of the day.

I picked out a quiet little dispersed site on the water’s edge, and watched the sun set as I soaked my feet.