PNT Section 2, Part 2: I Want to Quit This Trail!

Rock Candy Mountain

After camping 10 miles up a dirt road outside of Yaak the night before, I met up with actual trail again just a few minutes after setting out. The morning was easy-going, with nice trail and some flat forest service road walking. As I entered wilderness area again, a bear sign welcomed me, reminding me I was still in their territory. 

The morning seemed to fly by. I hit 200 miles, and celebrated with a hot (cold) chocolate I’d been saving since the Whitefish Divide. I stopped to make a hundred mile marker out of sticks. It was far less climactic than the first, and felt somewhat depressing to do alone.

By lunch, I’d hit 15 miles. Proud of my progress, I took a nap in the shade, and was woken up the engine of an approaching ATV. The small family crowded on the cart waved at me as they passed. 

I ascended into beautiful mountainous scenery, but for some reason my spirits were low. My nap hadn’t felt very restorative, and my feet and hips hurt worse than ever. The pain was especially discouraging. On my PCT hike just two years ago, my body didn’t start to ache this much until after 2000 miles. Maybe it was all the road-walking?

As evening approached, I reached the saddle of a pass just after a location labeled Rock Candy Mountain on my map. I let the similarly-title song play on loop in my head as I ate. I set up my tent facing west, so I could potentially catch a glimpse of the sunset while drifting off. The days were still long enough that being awake as dusk or dawn was tricky.

 As I settled in, I noticed a few elk wander into the meadow nearby, completely unaware of my presence. They grazed for twenty minutes before being scared away by another hiker huffing past. Even from a distance, I could tell he was a thru-hiker by the look of his gear and the speed of his pace. But I was too tired to call out, and it was getting dark. That night, I was woken by the distant sounds of thunder. As they grew closer, I began to consider my precarious position above tree line. 

Adopted by Locals

I awoke in a despondent mood. I packed up my wet tent, and hurried down the trail toward. My goal was to reach Fiest Creek Resort -a little rural bar and grill- before they closed that evening. From there, I’d find a way to get to Bonner’s Ferry, and then home. Somewhere in the night, I’d made the decision to quit this hike. I was in pain, abruptly lonely without Giggles, and somehow not feeling any gratitude for the abundance of experiences I’d had in the last few days. Hitting 200 miles, the elk, the wildflowers on the mountain pass, seeing another hiker- all things that would normally thrill me- weren’t bringing me joy. 

I hardly noticed the great views on the hike down. I soon ran into the hiker from the night before, who went by I-Will. I learned he had been hiking so late because he was doing 30-mile days to catch friends who were just ahead. I offhandedly mentioned I was getting off trail in Bonner’s Ferry, which made my decision feel more certain. He pointed out a trail registrar near his camp, which I signed with a thoughtful note, believing it would be my last. I wasn’t sure how to handle these feelings of disappointment- in myself, in the situation. In my entire 2600-mile PCT hike, I’d never once been tempted to quit. And now I was giving up before 300 miles? But limping the next few miles down a hot and exposed dirt bike path seemed to justify my decision. I-Will passed me, going full-speed in the mid-day heat.

I arrived at Fiest Creek Resort about an hour later. It was a charming little place with water features and a wrap-around porch. I immediately ordered a burger, and sat with I-Will while he charged his devices in the outlets nearby. Service was slow, presumably due to the huge, noisy group occupying half the seating area. They had the comfortable aura of regulars- leaning on the bar in swimsuits, playing the decorative piano, and laughing boisterously with staff. I-Will left soon after I finished eating, still in a hurry to catch up to his friends. 

I went to the parking lot to begin the process of soliciting a ride. It soon became clear that the only people left in the establishment were part of the rowdy group, and they weren’t heading to Bonner’s Ferry. I began to consider that I might need to ask permission to camp on the property, or double-back up the steep dirt bike path. The next ten miles ahead was private land and highways, and unlike I-Will, I wasn’t counting on a 30-mile day. 

I must have looked especially desperate when I tentatively asked the last group exiting the restaurant for a ride, because they offered to host me for the evening, and get me to Bonner’s Ferry tomorrow. I graciously accepted. The nearby cabin they mentioned sounded preferable to camping behind Fiest Creek’s dumpsters. 

They took me to a nearby rustic A-frame, where dozens of people gathered. It apparently belonged to the family of some in the massive group. The majority of those at the gathering were high school friends, accompanied by their partners, extended family, and children. Rows of camper vans RVs filled the property. One of the owners showed me a quiet spot by the river where I could set up my tent, and offered to get me a drink. 

While they were accepting of my decision not to consume alcohol (it doesn’t agree with me when I’m exhausted), they insisted I join in on their drinking games. For hours, we played a game called trout, where a full beer can is passed around the circle using non-dominate hands. Each person who drops the can gets a letter, and the first to spell trout has to shotgun the shaken beer. As the guest, I could tell they tried to go easy on me.

I still managed to not only rack up a bunch of letters, but also completely miss a catch and take a blow directly to the face. Everyone watching seemed horrified by the bleeding, but, after checking that I hadn’t lost any teeth, I couldn’t stop laughing. A kind woman helped me clean and bandage the wound. The laughter continued, as we realized there is not way to bandage a lip without it looking like a mustache.  

For the rest of the evening, we sat around a campfire talking. One person described their “family” tree as a Banyan – instead of branching out from one trunk, multiple trunks were formed by outreached limbs. The closeness they all felt toward one another, regardless of blood relation, was evident. 

Everyone was interested to hear about the hike I was on. I couldn’t bring myself to admit I was likely not returning to the trail after this. As I took in their amazed looks and astonished questions, I found my spirits somewhat renewed. Was it possible I didn’t want to quit anymore? I stayed up late into the night with my new friends. Several offered to give me guns, and I assured them my bear spray would suffice. Still, I was touched by the thought. 

Day 3 – Bonner’s Ferry

After a quick breakfast with a small group from the party, I was graciously driven into town, all the way to my motel. The Kootenai Valley Motel was clearly used to thru-hikers. They had a large, custom-made hiker box, and let me check in early. The owner immediately gave me all the information I needed regarding laundry, local gear shops, and food options.

I spent the afternoon doing laundry, resupplying, and enjoying the generous ice cream portions from the grocery store across the street. I texted Amy, the woman I’d met vacationing with her partner in Yaak, and we made plans to meet up the next morning so she could take me back to trail. 

Hiker portion- can you believe this was only $1?

Kindness is Restorative

The next morning, Amy took me to her favorite coffee place, so I could continue my tradition of getting a local post card and sticker. She also chauffeured me to the gear shop for a new fuel canister, and then back to the trail. As she dropped me off, she prayed for me on the rest of my journey. While I’m not religious, I was touched by her words. I was newly positive and motivated as I headed back into the wilderness. 

In the span of 24 hours, I’d ping-ponged between being certain I would quit, to being certain nothing could stop me from finishing this trail. It was all because of the kindness and encouragement strangers had bestowed on me. They barely knew me, but I could sense from their words and actions they were as invested in my success as I was. To them, my hike might have represented unfulfilled dreams of their own. Those who could not take the same risks lived vicariously through me. Stopping now would not only be letting myself down, but others as well. Despite hiking alone, I couldn’t wait to continuing making connections with strangers.