Please Don’t Drown, He Said

Stream crossing can be one of the great challenges of the PCT, especially in years with heavy snow packs or early in the season. The advice for safe and effective crossing, often discussed at length on the pct-l list serv, is abundant and every PCT hiker has his or her story … not all as poignant as Gail Storey’s.

Gail Storey is the author of I Promise Not to Suffer: A Fool for Love Hikes the Pacific Crest Trail, Winner of the Barbara Savage Award from The Mountaineers Books, 2013. The book is her hilariously harrowing story of hiking the PCT with her husband, who made most of their ultralight gear. Her website is http://gailstorey.com.

This is an excerpt from her book.

By Gail D. Storey

Four hundred miles long and sixty miles wide, the High Sierra is the most remote wilderness of the Pacific Crest Trail.  My husband, Porter, and I had been preparing physically and emotionally for the Sierra during the first 750 miles of our 2,663-mile hike from Mexico to Canada. In our mid-fifties, we were having our two-thirds life crisis—he as a hospice doctor, and I as a hospice doctor’s wife. He craved renewal in the cycles of nature, and I’d come along to make sure nature didn’t do him in.

But nature seemed out to get me in crisis after crisis—injuries, sliding down scree, struggling out of ravines. I never much cared for nature, or rather, thought it okay as long as it stayed outside. Porter was an experienced outdoorsman, where I had hardly ever hiked or camped before the PCT.

The deeper we hiked into the High Sierra, the more its silence deepened around us, until we’d hear the distant roar of a waterfall. I’d watch snowmelt pour down the mountain and hope for a chance to redeem myself.

The trail led us through one rushing stream after another. It’s just cold water, I told myself, don’t freak out. I boulder-hopped across streams where rocks broke the surface. From the bank, I planned my route by the width of my stride and the weight of my pack. Once I committed to it, it was best to keep going, rather than wobble on a sharp or mossy stone. Sometimes when I got there, the space between rocks was too wide. I had to search for another or backtrack, waver while my trekking poles sought purchase in the rocky creekbed. If the rushing current grabbed the basket of my pole, or its tip got stuck in the rocks at the bottom, I plunged in and got wet to my waist, along with my gear.

Gail doing one of her ‘infamous’ log crossings

We came to a creek so deep no boulders reached the surface. All that was available was a fallen log.

“It’s all about momentum,” Porter said.

I watched in awe as he bounded onto one end, bounced a little to test its strength, then strode purposefully across. He was most magnificent the last few yards, when he ran and jumped to the bank.

I could straddle the log and scoot, but the bark would tear up my pants and inner thighs even if I managed to hang onto my pack as I pushed it ahead of me. So pack on my back, I stepped up with shaky legs.    

“What’s the worst that can happen, right?” I called to Porter. “I could fall off, be carried away by the current, and drown.”

“Please don’t drown,” he said.

You got this, I told myself. I took a deep breath and inched across, one foot in line with the other. I kept my eyes on the log’s knots and bark and watched for slippery smooth spots. I tried not to look down into the water, afraid I’d lose my balance in its flowing motion.   

“You’re doing great,” Porter encouraged me from the other side. I felt him psychically will me across. The most frightening moment was the leap from the end of the log to the bank. By then I was exhausted from courage.

He braced one foot on the bank. “You’re almost there.” He reached out his hand and I grabbed it. There was a grace to it, this wilderness minuet, one we’d do over and over again. The love with which he thrust out his arm, the trust with which I took it, would become the defining gesture of our hike of the Pacific Crest Trail. 

Many of the streams lacked either boulders or logs, so we had to ford them. We stopped first to take off our boots, peel off our socks to keep them dry, then put our boots back on to keep our balance and not cut our feet on the sharp, slippery rock-bottoms.

After each crossing, we paused on the other bank to pour the icy water from our boots, dry our feet, and put our socks back on.  Our socks got soaked, so after each ford we alternated to the slightly drier pair, airing under straps on our packs.

I had no idea we’d be fording so many streams, up to twenty a day. Twenty!

“The guidebook says Tyndall Creek is ‘formidable,’” I fretted that night at our campsite.

“You’re doing fine at crossing creeks,” he said.

“More formidable than what we’ve been through?” I asked.

“We’ll ford it somehow.”  

We had no alternative, this high in the High Sierra.

The daunting prospects of Tyndall Creek

The next morning we pried open our socks, frozen and stiff as boards, and forced our cold feet into them. Our boots were frozen too. Even the laces were stiff, hard to tighten and tie with our freezing fingers.

After cold fords through Wallace and Wright Creeks, we arrived at swollen Tyndall Creek. It looked even more dangerous than reputed. I held my breath as Porter crossed first to test the power and depth of the current.

“Undo your pack’s hip belt,” he called from the other side.  “If you lose your balance in the current, shrug off your pack so its weight doesn’t drag you downstream.”

“And lose my pack?” I hollered back.

“Better than losing your life.”

Frozen on the bank, I stared into the deep rushing water.

Finally I stepped in and lurched drunkenly even with my trekking poles. Facing upstream for balance, I slowly sidestepped across. But my foot got caught between two rocks on the uneven bottom, and the rapids knocked me down.

First there was white, the cold foam of swirling bubbles. I sputtered and gurgled, fought hard to get up, but I couldn’t. I thrashed harder, and the water gave way beneath. My legs flailed above me. I sank, butt-heavy. 

I landed softly on the bottom, half-reclining on my pack. I watched my sunhat rise above me to the surface. It was bright up there, but deep down here, everything was blue. I was drowning in blueness. I bounced in the upwelling, downwelling. I slipped into a blueshift of time running backwards.

But someone was parting the air. He was a shadow, head to water, leaning from the sky. I looked up through webwork under water, saw the fine lace of trees, sunlight latticed through their branches. The world was halved by sunlight.  

Porter plunged in and dragged me out, body, pack, and all. I sliced the air with my icy bones. We collapsed on the rocks. Water poured from us in rivulets. A waterfall of snowmelt myself, my teeth chattered like clacking pebbles.

I sat there reeling with stillness. Inside, I felt like the river, a wider, deeper version of myself. My skin tingled from the bracing cold, my eyes opened at the brightness of everything around me. Nature, much more powerful than I, was letting me live.

A Pass to Remember

By Kit ‘Chinchilla’ and Jacob ‘Pyrite’

Kit (Chinchilla) and Jacob (Pyrite) completed a honeymoon thru-hike on the PCT in 2011, a very heavy snow year. However, it almost ended at the bottom of Dick’s Pass. This is that story.

They are two weeks away from starting another long hike, southbound following the Continental Divide Trail. They hope to make it to Mexico in one season, and are eager to be outside again. They’ll be updating their blog at thehungryhoneymoon.wordpress.com over the course of their journey. 

PCT sign from an early fall 2012 weekend trip to Leavitt Peak in Emigrant Wilderness

“The world is older and bigger than we are. This is a hard truth for some folks to swallow.” Edward Abbey

Pyrite and I were a little less than three months in, and over 1100 miles into our thru-hike when we reached Echo Lake near Lake Tahoe, CA in early July, 2011. We planned to meet Pyrite’s parents for resupply, and spent a zero relaxing in South Lake Tahoe. Faced with a high snow year, we learned about the delicate balance between taking pride in our accomplishments, and maintaining humility and a healthy respect for the forces and rhythms of the natural world. We carried tales of torrential river crossings, precipitous passes, and were simply happy we made it safely through the challenges north of Kennedy Meadows and in the High Sierra. Some days we felt superhuman; brimming with delight. Other days, the elegiac realities of slogging through, over, and under snow seemed insurmountable. To keep our spirits up, our thoughts turned to the possibility of once again, walking on dirt. Talk on the trail said we would see more and more dirt as we approached and passed Sierra City, CA. To lighten our load, and in anticipation of what was ahead, we ditched our ice axes at Sonora Pass, and carried on with trekking poles and micro spikes. 

Pyrite’s parents graciously met us at Echo Lake to bring supplies, and hiked out with us to spend a night at Lake Aloha in Desolation Wilderness. Beneath the expansive granite peaks surrounding azure patches speckling the frozen lake, we spent the evening with them. They had a fresh perspective, which was a mirror for us to reflect on where we had been.

After coffee and breakfast the next morning, we said farewell and headed vaguely North. 

Although still hiking through snow, our spirits were rejuvenated and we felt empowered by our experiences to make smart decisions. We believed the most difficult part of the pilgrimage was behind us. Brazen with confidence, we continued on. The following is Pyrite’s account on a pass I will remember.

We got to the top of Dicks Pass (a fairly modest pass at something like 9400 ft). We barely glanced at the map before looking towards our descent. From the top of the pass it dropped quickly into a deep bowl, where the bottom of the bowl dropped away again into Dick’s Lake, about 1000 feet down from where we were. The edge at the top was a nearly vertical cornice, maybe 60 degrees. It was early in the morning and the snow was icy. 

Chinchilla and I looked around for the best route down. Nothing looked particularly good. The top of the pass was corniced with rock above it. I started cutting steps, knowing that at least the incline of the snow would get less severe on the way down. I cut steps about five feet down, so my face was in line with Chinchilla’s feet.

I looked up at her with apprehension.

“I don’t know about this…” 

We agreed, I wasn’t very safe. It was hard getting my feet in and each step was yet more unstable. I began moving back up when I slipped.

I was sliding down the bowl. 

Fast. 

I reached out and stuck my fingers as deep into the snow as I could get them. I clawed and gripped onto whatever crust I could manage. I dug my toes in. I cursed. 

Chinchilla yelled “Stop!” 

I tried to stop.  Fingers.  Elbows. Knees. Anything into the snow.

I flipped and dug my heels in like a crab. I think it was my pack that finally added the last bit friction of necessary to stop. I came to rest about 300 vertical feet down from the top, maybe 20 feet from where the bowl started to drop into the lake. My sunglasses and trekking poles were scattered across the slope. Deep gouges decorated the snow where I had stuck various body parts.

I stood up, looked at my hands, and thought to myself that they were still cold so that’s why the blood hadn’t started welling up out of them.  I waited and no blood came. Hands intact I checked myself for further injury when Chinchilla called down,

“How was it?” 

Since I was uninjured and merely shaking from the intense adrenaline rush that I got, I replied “Not bad.” 

She responded “Should I come down?” since we had talked about the possibility of glissading. 

When I had said not bad I meant not bad considering I almost just died.   Her coming down in a similar fashion was out of the question. I sure as hell should not have done that. 

I thought for a second, grabbed my 3mm rope that I purchased to get across rivers, and headed back up the slope. En route I retrieved my sunglasses and trekking poles.  It wasn’t as hard on the way up, without pack. I used my trekking poles as a self-arrest tool. I felt okay about getting back up to Chinchilla.  The adrenaline rush erased my fear.

Upon reaching the top, we decided to tie the rope around Chinchilla’s hip belt and then around my waist and use a carabiner as a belay device to lower her down. I kicked in deep foot pockets and guided the rope through the device, lowering her down. We only had 100′ of the rope, and the snow Chinchilla was damn steep, so I told her to dig her feet in and stand up. Slowly and carefully, I made the decent, again.

I had Chinchilla untie herself in case I went plummeting down 300′ again. 

No sense in taking her down with me. 

I thought of possible ways to rappel down, but it wasn’t feasible. The tips of my trekking poles were in my fists (we had really lightweight gossamer gear trekking poles, so the traditional technique to self arrest would not work). The second time was more successful, and I got to Chinchilla, kicked in again and started the process all over. 

300’ later, we reached my pack. I put it on and we traversed east to the trees. I decided it would be a good idea to figure out where exactly we needed to meet up with the trail.  I pulled out the map and took a good look and realized that the trail went up from the pass. Up a ridge and it didn’t come down to our elevation until about a mile away.  It struck me, not only did I do something horribly risky, but it was unnecessary. Tired from the scare, and dejected from our negligence, we worked our way around the lake to meet up with the trail successfully and without further incident.

This was, by far, the stupidest mistake we made on the trail. We were so accustomed to dangerous and sketchy situations in the Sierra and North Yosemite, we didn’t stop to think that maybe the trail didn’t go straight down from Dick’s Pass. I kicked myself repeatedly for the next couple of days, while being thankful that nothing serious happened.

Thru-hiking reminds me that we puny humans are not the center of the universe. Whenever we get comfortable and things are going well, we’re likely to encounter the force that scares the shit out of us, purges the overconfidence, and reestablishes an equilibrium. In these moments of understanding, when the rhythms are amplified, I am most grateful for being alive and that my best friend is alive and I can share another day with him.  Because it’s not all about us, and we are insignificant. But for a time, we are free, and we are here on Earth, and we are alive.

An Interview with Sunshine

tHInK outsidE is a unique resource designed just for students (5th grade through high school) and educators to experience, learn, and teach about thru-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. As a part of that program, teacher and thru-hiker Christy ‘Rockin’ Rosander facilitated an interview between a class of middle school students and ‘Sunshine’, a 7th grader who has now hiked both the PCT (2011) and the AT (2012) with her father, ‘Balls’.  Earlier this year we posted a similar conversation between tHInK outsidE and Monkey, the youngest to complete a thru-hike of the PCT.  Both are amazing youngsters.

In 2013, Balls and Sunshine are more than 1,000 miles along the CDT.  Just a few weeks ago, Sunshine turned 13.  You can follow their epic adventure through their journal http://www.trailjournals.com/sunshine2013cdt/

This interview was conducted prior to the beginning of their CDT hike.

tHInK outsidE – What was the most difficult weather conditions you have encountered?

Sunshine – “Wind and rain. The wind is very difficult to deal with because sometimes it is stronger than me. For example when I am on a cliff and suddenly I am being pushed by very strong wind. Also sometimes the wind knocks down our tent. The rain is hard because it makes you cold and wet, which is not always pleasant. On the AT, the rain made the rocks slippery, so it was hard to walk on rocks.”

tHInK outsidE – How did you get your trail name?

Sunshine -” I got my tail name when I was section hiking with my dad before my thru-hike. A fellow section hiker gave me the trail name because of my hair color and sunny disposition.”

tHInK outsidE – What was the hardest part of the journey?

Sunshine – “Everything was hard, except eating. I ate a lot while hiking and when we hitched into a trail town.

Leaving family and friends, hiking etc. Honestly I don’t know what is harder.”

tHInK outsidE – How did you feel when you were done with the PCT and AT?

Sunshine – “I was impressed with myself. I honestly don’t understand how I did it. When I am hiking, some things don’t seem real, it is so cool to have these opportunities. I just don’t understand, its just too cool! The miles always go so fast.”

tHInK outsidE – Which trail was the hardest you’ve completed?

Sunshine – “The PCT had more elevation gain and was further between resupply towns, so it was harder.”

tHInK outsidE – Did you listen to music?

Sunshine – “Yes, I LOVE to listen to music! Except when it is dark or early in the morning. We need to listen for animals(bears, snakes, mountain lions, etc.) so we do not surprise them, which would make them defensive, and could cause an attack. I enjoy listening to Taylor Swift and POP music. We also like to talk A LOT! We mostly listen to music when we are tired or going up steep hills.”

tHInK outsidE – Where did your motivation come from?

Sunshine – “My iPod and talking. I was very motivated to complete the challenge that I committed to.”

tHInK outsidE – What was your favorite trail food?

Sunshine – “Snickers and candy (Starbursts).”

tHInK outsidE – What is the weirdest trail name you have ever heard?

Sunshine – “Drop and Roll, she got her name because her coat caught on fire, and had to Drop and Roll. Everyone was yelling “DROP AND ROLL, DROP AND ROLL!!! at her.”

tHInK outsidE – Who were the funniest people you have met on both trails?

Sunshine - “Provisions, was living out of a shelter, on the AT, and was mentally unstable, one could say CRAZY. He would run outside in his underwear, in a storm with a BIG stick, in the middle of the night to practice martial arts. Every day he would ask someone if he could borrow their iPod or iPhone and dance to it in Ballet. One night he put a borrowed iPod in his pants while dancing. There was one guy on the AT who carried a foam sword, for fun, and Provisions told him that he (Provisions) was training to be a ninja and right now he was trying to earn his broad sword. Provisions kept asking him to hit him with his foam sword. Also he told everyone that he was not an ordinary ninja. He was a sweeping ninja(as in sweeping the floor, with a broom, and swept the floor while dancing.) When I was trying to go to sleep he was using the end of the bunk I was using as a chin up bar. His face kept disappearing and reappearing over and over between the rungs on the ladder.”

tHInK outsidE – What made you want to do the Triple Crown?

Sunshine – “I have always wanted to hike the PCT. So when we completed the PCT we just had to hike the other two.”

When to Turn Back

There is a fine line between ‘pushing through’ and being foolish, between courage and hubris, between confidence and wisdom.  The stories on this website and in The Pacific Crest Trailside Readers have often featured tales where hikers have overcome daunting conditions and conquered unimaginable obstacles.  But there are also those stories where someone has pushed the boundaries of common sense too far and ended up making the ultimate sacrifice (see Ryan Forsthe’s “And Sometimes They Come Back” in the California volume). Christy Rosander chooses to leave the trail and hike another day when she faces a monstrous snowpack in June, 2012 just north of Crater Lake.

By Christy ‘Rockin’ Rosander - Mile 1854 to mile 1858 and unknown miles cross-country to Diamond Lake

I do not even know where to begin. Giving up is not something I do very often. But one thing this trail has taught me is to be aware and listen to my inner voice that says, “Stop, this it is wrong,” or to act upon or do something even when it is uncomfortable.

I had a great night. My body, after being on the trail for some time, has a new rhythm and the every day nagging aches and pains are less bothersome. A natural sequence of daily routines has become automatic. It is at this point the thru-hiker emerges.

I knew I would be encountering solid snow early on because the route through the Mount Theilsen Wilderness travels up to 7400 feet and it was just late June. My experience from yesterday led me to believe that solid snow started at 6900 feet. This is everywhere, not just on the typical north side of the mountains. The ranger at Crater Lake said they had a late winter and a very cool and rainy spring, hence the snow. He thought it might take another month for the snow to disappear. My strategy was to go at least 25 miles in and see how it went.

As the morning continued, the trail was progressively harder to follow with no evidence of any one having passed before me. I soon was frustrated and simply picked the best route rather than try following the trail.

I know this is not a new fact, but Oregon has A LOT of trees of all sizes and they are scattered everywhere. When it snows the small ones just kind of lay down ready to be unleashed at any moment. The little trees simply spring back into place. I now call them mouse traps. The hiker steps anywhere close to them and out they spring, cutting, bruising, and scaring the daylights out of the traveler. At least that is what happened to me.

After a few miles I was bleeding, one knee was hurting, and my wrist ached and I had not even fallen. After turning a corner and all I could see was snow under trees for miles, I knew I needed to turn back and find a way out.

Using Halfmile’s paper map combined with Topo Maps on my iPhone, I charted a cross-country route down to Diamond Lake plotting waypoints on the iPhone. Usually going off trail is a very bad idea in the back-country, so I hiked up the mountain for just enough service to text and let my husband know at what mile I was leaving the trail and where I was heading. 

It took a few hours to pick through downed trees to make it to highway 138. After road walking south for a couple miles, I walked into the Mount Thielsen trailhead parking lot. A group of hikers were there and I knew to ask for help. It turns out they had hiked in and had to turn around because of snow and were trying to decide what to do. They were very helpful and gave me a ride to Diamond Lake Resort. After looking at maps, I determined it was safest to come back to Southern Oregon in a few weeks.

The group offered to give me a ride back to stormy Crater Lake where I could get transportation to where I needed to go. I know I am so being watched over.

I weighed out all of my options: going south bound in Oregon from the Oregon-Washington border (I have always hiked northward), skip up to where there is no snow in Oregon (but I would be too early to hike Washington, they got a lot of snow), or go home to my super loving husband. Not a hard decision. So back I go home by trolley and train.

Although I was really bummed and bruised, but so very thankful for my safety, support of so many people, and for the opportunity to even be on the Pacific Crest Trail. It was early in the summer and what better opportunity to get in some climbs and visit my grandkids before hitting Oregon again.