PNT Section 6, Part 1: The Pasayten Wilderness
A heavy pack on hard pavement
I procrastinated leaving Oroville, mostly because I was loathe to pick up my heavy pack. With seven days of food crammed in, and a dry stretch coming up that required I carry multiple liters, it felt like it was pushing 40 lbs. My shoulder straps creaked as I waddled out of town. Even my new shoes couldn’t protect my tender soles from feeling flattened by the pavement.
My foot pain was temporarily relieved when I reached the gravel Simikameen trail just outside of town. Apparently in previous years, hikers could follow this pleasant riverside path all the way to Nighthawk, and cut out over ten miles of road-walking. But a tunnel collapse meant I would be walking along the paved and small-shouldered Loomis-Oroville road.
Thankfully, the peaceful river views, cloud cover, and light traffic made for a tolerable morning. I put in an audiobook I’d been saving to distract me from my feet.
As the morning wore on, traffic picked up, and cars honked at me as they slowed to pass. I soon reached mile 600, and made the marker out of the only available debris I could find- trash on the side of the road. I thought it was fitting for how anthropogenic this section felt so far. I passed a few BLM campgrounds that seemed popular, and refilled my water at the second.
As I neared the small town (population: 5) of Nighthawk, I noticed a note on FarOut about local trail angels. Excited by the prospect of taking a break somewhere off the road, I found a pullout to message them, but found I had no service.
As I was about to continue on, a truck pulled over next to me and ask if I was headed to Palmer Lake. I confirmed that I was, and he offered me a ride. Reed was a retired logger, on his way to the lake to fish for the day. He was also hard-of-hearing, and I found myself telling him about the trail in loud, sometimes repeated, fragments. When he learned I was going all the way into the mountains, he offered to drive me further. I named a few waypoints on my map, and he seemed familiar with them.
As we climbed out of the valley, I took in the sharp drop-off on the steep gravel road. If not for Reed, I’d be walking there, obscured from large trucks by the clouds of dust they kicked up. As we continued for over thirty minutes past the lake, I began to realize that my driver might be too generous for his own good. I reminded him that the further he took me, the less time he would have to fish, but he waved me off. I eventually pretended that I needed to get off at an upcoming BLM site. Reed dropped me off, but wouldn’t leave until I took several disposable water bottles from his cooler. Still loaded with the water I’d filtered right before he’d picked me up, I left them where other hikers might need them. I continued a few more miles uphill until I found a secluded single track to camp on.
All alone out here
In the morning, the trail transitioning from cattle highlands to evergreen-covered foothills. I didn’t see another soul, nor hear any sign of motorized vehicles. This was the true isolation I had been looking forward to when starting this trail.
I rejoined the PNT at a high point, and saw that today would primarily involved walking through burn. I praised my luck that it was again overcast. As I studied my maps, I noticed that I’d already climbed over 5,000 feet that morning, but did not feel much strain. I marveled at what this rough trail had done to my body. On the PCT, a climb that size would have zapped my energy, and taken me much more than a few hours.
Some of the burn I trekked through was years-old, and already covered in a layer of wildflowers. From a distance, the fireweed made the hillsides look like they were blushing.
Other burns were more recent, with no signs of life except the persistent biting flies that seemed to follow me like a shadow. The streams I filtered tasted lightly of charcoal. By evening, my lower legs looked like I was a practicing chimney sweep. I managed to reach the edge of the burn by sunset, and greedily set up my tent right in the middle of a pristine and unused campsite.
Cathedral Pass
The next morning, I came across a cluster of historic buildings. I explored their musty insides, grateful for the brief reprieve from the flies.
One structure contained the name of Ron Strickland, who began exploring and establishing the PNT route in the 1970’s. The graffiti specified that he and his friend had visited this high-elevation cabin in much different weather conditions than I had.
An angular rock formation soon came into view ahead of me. I knew without checking my map that this had to be the appropriately-named Cathedral Pass. As I neared the top, my aching legs were numbed by the unique beauty of traveling through a pass.
There’s something magical about passing from one side of a mountain range to another. It’s like going through a natural gate, with the promise of an entirely different world waiting on the other side. I lingered on highest part of the pass for lunch, letting the breeze keep the flies away for me.
The reason for this section’s notoriety was evident. Huge rock slabs reminiscent of the Sierra Nevada rose abruptly from the high alpine landscape. Crystal-clear lakes reflected the sky like little mirrors. Marmots chirped from their hiding places in fields of paintbrush and lupine.
That afternoon, I passed by three groups of section hikers, all of whom informed me that the “bubble” of my fellow thru-hikers was less than a day ahead. In the evening, I descended back into a burn area. I managed to find a small stand of living trees to camp within near a river. Going down almost 3,000 feet had felt pleasant at the end of a long day, but was also subtly discouraging, as I knew I would have to immediately regain that elevation firs thing in the morning.
Technically a fire closure?
The next morning, I hurried through an exhausting climb before sunrise, and soon arrived at the junction with Larch Creek trail. Laminated maps advertising the reroute away from the still-burning Calcite fire were nailed to trees. I carefully read each sign, and saw no language that specifically barred me from continuing on the primary route. I used my satellite device to message a family member, and they confirmed that PNT still remained open. With no smoke in the sky, no breeze, and only twenty miles until the trail would take me out of the danger zone, I decided to press on.
Sweeping views of the Cascade range just ahead soon vindicated my decision. The landscape seemed even emptier up here, but I was encouraged by the unique shoe prints I could see in the dirt. I knew they likely belonged to Lentil or Toast, or any of the number of friendly hikers I’d seen in Oroville. It made me feel less alone in this precarious section.
The views continued to impress as I crested Bunker Hill, a beautiful spot that would have made an excellent lunch stop had I not been in a hurry. On the maps I had seen at the junction, this waypoint was about halfway to the “safe” zone, and seemed closest to the burning fire. I was further encouraged by the lack of smoke.
The next rise I climbed offered the first view of the fire. I estimated that it was still over four miles from me, as I could see the clear-cut of the US-Canada border dividing the space between. The tiny plume of white smoke drifted benignly away from me.
I didn’t see the smoke plume again until I neared the end of the reroute area, where the trail met the Pasayten River. It suddenly seemed much closer and imposing, though it may have been an effect of my lower vantage point. I had meant to spend the hottest part of the day lounging on the pebble beach, but the overhead hum of helicopters urged me onward.
I covered the next five miles in under 90 minutes, a personal record for me. My heartrate finally slowed when I reached the flat expanse of a long-disused airstrip. I checked my maps, and was surprised to see that I’d covered over 28 miles- a distance I’d only previously managed on famously flat sections of the PCT. I’ve always known I perform well under pressure.
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