PNT Section 6, Part 2: The North Cascades

It gets harder before it gets easier

The morning started off deceptively pleasant, with a gentle climb through underbrush thick with huckleberries. I stuffed my face and saved as many as I could in an unused water bottle. I’d already diminished my candy on this stretch, but knew I would need the extra sugar boost during the day the trail had in store for me. 

Based on FarOut comments, I was already dreading the climb up to Frosty Peak. While it was only 3,000 feet of elevation gain over 5 miles, it looked as if all of it would be through unmaintained burn area. Past hikers described it as “a terrifying mess of charred log-hopping”. I don’t think I could have related it better myself.

And of course, the biting flies were out with a vengeance. The worst part came during the steepest part of the climb. Often, I would painstakingly navigate a tangle of blowdown, only to find the trail switch-backed in the other direction immediately after that point, and I could have avoided the effort by simply going upwards off trail. In the midst of my frustration, I tried plowing uphill, but was quickly punished by the stinging nettles and goathead that lay in wait. With no shade, water, escape from bugs, and every foot of gained progress a fight, the only thing left to do was endure.

 

When I finally emerged into green high alpine meadows, I wanted to kiss the bare trail. I checked my maps, I noted that it had taken me over 6 hours to travel only 5 miles- a speed even slower than my traverse through the infamous Lionshead bushwhack. Thankfully, I would have an opportunity to make up some of that time when the trail intersected with the PCT in a few miles. 

The 700-mile-mark happened to be right on top of Frosty Pass. I took in the landscape stretched out behind me, bidding goodbye to the most remote and challenging section of the trail so far. While I still felt no different than the uncertain and naïve person who had started in Glacier just a few weeks prior, I could hardly deny the evidence in front of me. I would be absurd to continue thinking of myself as “not a real thru-hiker”. 

After descending the pass, I soon intersected the PCT. In comparison, the PNT looked like a tiny stream flowing into a wide river. It felt wide enough to walk two-abreast, and gentle enough to carry my poles carelessly over one shoulder. I crossed paths with at least a dozen hikers in the first hour, and was thrown off by how uninterested in chatting they all seemed. I had to remind myself that most had been hiking in the wilderness equivalent of a crowd since Mexico. 

Walking on the PCT felt like returning to an old friend, and seeing the passage of time in each other’s eyes. I’d discovered my love of thru-hiking on this trail only two years, but I had changed so much. While I remembered the climbs of northern Washington to be some of the most challenging on the PCT, it felt cruise-y to my PNT-hardened calves. I continued into sunset, enjoying the uninterrupted views and certainty that I could navigate easily in the dark. That, and every tent spot I passed was taken. Another charming detail of the PCT I had nearly forgotten.

I finally stopped and lay out under the stars near Woody Pass. Somehow, there were no bugs in the air. Of course not!, I thought, internally laughing at the extreme juxtaposition of conditions between these two national scenic trails. 

Back on the PNT with friends

Packing up in the morning was easy after my night of cowboy camping. I lamented that I had been unable to do so thus far on this trail, due to the bugs and weather. I soon arrived at the junction where the PNT left the PCT, and decided to take a prolonged break. A few groups of weekenders passed me, but none had any rations to spare. Down to less than 2,500 calories in my bag, and still over 30 miles to go, I was running on fumes. But as my luck would have it, Pika and Laundromat, the couple I’d met in Oroville, soon arrived. I must have passed their tent site in the evening. We excitedly exchanged stories, and they generously gave me several extra bars they were carrying. We lingered awhile longer, then returned to our old friend, the PNT. 

But the trail was different now. More clear. Fresh sawdust covered the ground where huge logs had once blocked the path. We soon met the source of the maintenance, a PNTA crew. After the horrible blowdown experience yesterday, I wanted to take off my pack and kneel at their feet in worship. And they seemed equally as excited to see us, happy their work was for someone. The interaction was much like what I’d imagine two celebrities running into each other to be like, all mutual praise and jitters. We shook hands and learned all their names before reluctantly continuing on the uncleared trail ahead. 

The day passed quickly and pleasantly. Now solidly in the Cascade range, the mountains took on a stark and soft beauty familiar to me. We passed the time with conversation of adventure, psychology, and personal goals. Pika and Laundromat were travel nurses, who had experienced life all around the US on their various assignments. They found time to thru-hike between contracts. Their description of Alaska being, “Vegas for outdoorsy people,” intrigued me.

As we climbed Devil’s Dome in the evening, Jack Mountain’s many glaciers watched us from above. Pika informed me that her mother was picking them up at the trailhead tomorrow, and that I was welcome to hitch a ride. I gratefully accepted, as I had to get far off trail to get around the still-closed North Cascades section ahead. I set up my tent in a small, rocky spot, though I longed to repeat my cowboy experience from the night before. But true to the spirit of the PNT, the bugs had returned. 

Ross Lake and Concrete, WA

The next morning, I immediately crossed the boundary into North Cascades National Park. The sign designating the entry into the Pasayten Wilderness in the other direction was appropriately crushed by blowdown.

As I neared Ross Lake, the trail became wide and soft again. Fearless deer wandered between backcountry campsite. The sound of a boat hummed in the distance, which I knew to be the official lake shuttle, the only motorized vessel allowed on the water. 

I cut down to the first accessible beach I could. Dead stumps, long drowned by the lake, felled, and resurfaced, lined the beach like an army of skeletons. I was pleased to find Pika and Laundromat already there, drying from their swim. They reported that the water was excellent, but I would have gone in even without the encouragement. After seven days of climbing over ashy logs and killing flies on my skin, I would do anything for something resembling a bath. 

But it was, indeed, the most pleasant body I’d swam in so far on trail. I went in fully clothed, hoping a rinse would freshen my foul-smelling outfit before I had to climb into someone else’s car. The beating sun had warmed the clear water just enough to not be shocking, and the sandy bottom felt like heaven on my sore feet. I savored a long float, then ate lunch with my companions as we dried out.

We quickly covered the final miles around the lake together. There was some joking and back-patting when we passed a group of fit-looking day hikers. Over 700 miles in, we all noticed how easily the miles disappeared in a dust cloud behind us. 

The reunion with Pika’s mom was just as it should be- full of warm greetings, fresh fruit, and a long chat about the trail in the shade. Pika had struck me as a very kind soul since I’d met her. Upon spending just a few minutes with her mother, I understood that her demeanor had been passed down. She didn’t complain about our smell on the long drive into town, and bought us all burgers in Concrete. 

I bid goodbye to Pika and Laundromat as they dropped me at the only available motel room in town. They would be taking a week off before returning to another part of the trail, to fill in sections they had not in a previous year. After some quick math, I knew I was unlikely to catch up to them before they finished. Despite hiking together for less than a day, I felt a quick comradery with them, and was sad to be alone again.

My time in town was brief. I quickly got my resupply, and planned to leave early the next morning to continue on. While it was still a “small” town by most standards, Concrete lacked the rural charm of communities in western Washington. Perhaps it was the busy highway that ran by, filled with crowds from the Seattle area making their way into the wilderness. However, it was not short on local hospitality. The kind owner of the motel offered to let me use her personal machine, when she learned I did not have a car to drive myself across town to the laundromat. And the employees at a small café gave me a free “sample” of their fresh-squeezed orange juice when they learned I was thru-hiking (which I noticed was suspiciously identical to their regular size). 

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