Prologue: Thursday
One Thursday in mid-November, Dad and I spend our day driving north into Oregon. We reach Cascade Lakes Highway shortly before sunset. A large sign warns us that the highway will close for the season on Monday at 5am.
At Elk Lake, I turn left onto the dirt road that will take us to the trailhead. Trailhead signs are all covered in black plastic. We pitch our tents near the outhouse, which is unlocked and stocked with toilet paper, for the snowmobilers who will soon be here, I assume. The ground is frosty and already frozen.
Day 1
23.5 miles on PCT (1952.6 to 1976.1), plus 1 mile on access trail
I wake in the dark before my alarm. My tent fly is frosty. My sleeping bag is wet with condensation. While I eat breakfast, I run the heater in my car to dry my sleeping bag and tent fly. By the time it’s light enough to hike, my things are dry and packed. Dad walks with me to the trail and takes a picture of me making a pose similar to the one I made when I left the trail last summer.
Then I’m off. I take the left fork; I want to rejoin the trail where I left off last summer. I walk as fast as I can because I’m cold and I need to crank up my body heat. After a mile, I reach the PCT. South Sister lights up in the sun’s first rays. I turn north.
The trail takes me uphill. Occasionally South Sister appears through the trees. I go downhill. Snow patches appear on the north-facing slope. Suddenly the trail is covered in snow. I reach Sisters Mirror Lake. It’s iced over. I feel pangs of doubt. How cold is it going to get tonight? How much snow is out here?
I convince myself that I’m going to be fine. I have all of today, all of tomorrow, and half of Sunday to complete this stretch. I can hike until I encounter something dangerous and still have enough time to turn around and get out.
At least two people have walked here since the last snowfall. Their footprints lead the way over the snowy stretches. I soon realize that I don’t have to check my location nearly so often; these footprints reliably follow the PCT.
I climb and descend a few times. At mile 1960, I reach a frosty meadow. Two of the Sisters tower above the far end of the meadow.
After the meadow, I descend to a frozen stream. The ice isn’t solid enough to hold my weight, so I find a place where I can get across on a small log and a rock.
I pass through the burn that prevented me from hiking this section last year. When I stop to pee, I find a large piece of obsidian.
After awhile I’m out of the forest and back into views. There’s a lot of snow, but there’s still footprints to follow. I’m able to go much faster than I would if these prints weren’t here, showing me the way. The snow slows me down, but not much. It’s solid enough that I’m not slipping or breaking through excessively.
I eat lunch on a boulder in the sun and take off my shoes and socks and let my feet dry.
After lunch, the views of Sisters get better and better. I top out on a ridge where two of the three are lined up before me. I spent awhile trying to take the perfect picture. Then the views get even better: to the north, Mount Washington, Three Fingered Jack, and Mount Jefferson peak over the horizon. I love this stretch of trail!
I enter the Obsidian Limited Entry Area. I expected to see obsidian here, obviously, but I’m not prepared for how it completely covers the ground. I’ve never seen anything like this. I pass the falls, which are still flowing, and fill up on water at the creek just upstream.
After this, there’s a lot of snow on the north-facing descent. There’s also a view of Mount Washington and Three Fingered Jack, which I savor as I go down snow-covered switchbacks.
I’ve walked over 20 miles by now. I’m a bit concerned about where I’m going to end up. There are several sites listed in Guthooks, but I can’t tell from the topo map if they’ll be snow covered or not. South-facing doesn’t necessarily mean snow-free.
I reach the bottom of the descent and immediately begin another climb. My first potential campsite will be halfway up this climb. On my way up, I reach a lava field. The views open specularly. My potential campsite is in a canyon backed up against a north-facing slope. The ground is frozen. The frost here didn’t even melt today. This place is too cold for me.
Though the sun is low, I keep going. I’m climbing now to the highest point on this hike. I switchback up through lava rock. The moon rises over North Sister. Lava rocks glow red as the sun sinks. At the top of the steep climb, I can again see Washington, Jack, Jefferson, and Hood lined up to the north. It’s one of my favorite views on the whole PCT.
I begin the descent and encounter an icy snowbank across the trail. I deem spikes necessary here so I don’t slip and slide somewhere I don’t want to go. On the far side, I remove my spikes and walk as fast as I can. Darkness is coming.
I find a campsite above the trail where most of the snow has melted. It’s on a knoll, so cold air will sink elsewhere. It’s almost warm up here. Relatively, of course. I can’t decide where to put my tent. The place I want is in range of a dead tree. The snag is sturdy, but I can’t make myself chance it. I pitch my tent as far under a copse of hemlock trees as I can, in hopes that the canopy will help insulate my tent enough to keep me comfortable through the long night to come.
Later, when I get up to pee, I realize I put my tent under another dead tree, one I didn’t see before, one that’s even more rotten than the one I avoided. Great. At least it’s a calm night.
That all changes a few hours later. I’m nearly asleep and suddenly there’s wind. This isn’t just a breeze that comes at nightfall. This is wind. I don’t feel safe sleeping beneath a rotten snag. In the dark, I drag my tent across the campsite into a safer place, one I avoided earlier because I didn’t want to put my tent out in the open with no insulation from trees overhead.
The wind keeps up. Awhile later, I get up to pee again. It’s snowing.
I go back into my tent and try to calm myself down. I have reception here, so I take advantage of it and refresh the forecast. Partly cloudy tonight. Sunny tomorrow. Ok. But it’s snowing.
I think through all of the worst case scenarios. In each of them, I can get out of here safely. I might be miserable, but I’ll be fine. I have the gear for this. I’ll be fine.
I manage to sleep in two-hour shifts. When I’m awake, I hear the patter of small, soft things hitting my tent. I don’t know if it’s hemlock leaves or snow. I’ll find out in the morning.
Day 2
7.6 miles on PCT (1976.1 to 1983.7), plus 6.5 miles on Hwy 242
I wake well before my alarm. I lie in my sleeping bag in the dark, with the wind still blowing and snow still falling. I don’t want to pack up in the dark. Not in this wind. Not in this cold. So I wait.
There’s a dusting of snow all over everything. My tent fly is frozen solid. The snow finally stops. Now it’s just windy.
At 5:45, I start to pack up. My tent is the last thing to pack, so I get out and fight the wind. I’m wearing two pairs of long underwear, my soft shell pants, a hooded fleece top, a micro puff top, and my rain jacket. I’ve never hiked in so many layers before.
As I hike away, I’m warm enough. The wind, however, bestows upon me a wind chill unlike any I’ve ever experienced. When I stop to get something out of my pack, I check my thermometer. It’s 24 degrees. With wind chill…low teens. At most.
When I get out on the bare slopes beside Yapoah Crater, the wind chill takes the temperature lower still. Single digits, I’m sure. There are a few hemlock trees here, and they’re frozen solid. The scenery is dramatic, even more so under ice and a fresh dusting of snow. I take pictures, but I can’t linger. The wind is strong and so, so cold.
My water tube has frozen in its insulator. The water in my Nalgene is icy inside its insulator. Single digit temperatures, for sure. If I’d known it would be this cold, I’d have used a different water strategy. I stuff my water bladder (and its insulator) inside my jacket. After ten minutes, I can get a sip of water. After 20 minutes, I can drink easily again.
I hike for miles with my water inside my jacket. I’m hiking in three layers of bottoms and three layers of tops and I’m not overheating. I’m not cold, either, which is fantastic.
I go through another burned area. I’m significantly lower in elevation now, but even here it snowed last night. The ground is frosted white.
Finally, a mile or so from the highway, I’m warm enough to take off my rain jacket, which has been serving as my wind breaker. I also put my water bladder back into my pack. After this, I enter the lava fields. I fell in love with this lava field last year, so I’m feeling nostalgic as I make way over the icy rocks.
Dee Wright Observatory appears. I’m getting close to the highway. Soon, I can see highway signs peeking above the rocks. The trail takes its time getting there, though.
Eventually I wind down and come around a bend and see the highway. This is it. I’ve finished Oregon.
I cross the highway to complete my footpath. I walk to the little wooden PCT sign and take my picture there. The lava stretches on to the north, into clouds.
I walk up to the observatory parking lot. The path to the observatory itself is coated in black ice. Since I don’t want to hurt myself today, I decide not to go up. I take pictures and proceed eastward on the highway. A week ago, McKenzie Highway closed for the winter. It’s a 6.5-mile walk to the eastern snow gate where I’ll meet my dad.
The highway is icy in places, so I mostly walk on the shoulder. A few miles in, two cyclists pass me on their way up. They let me know that my dad is walking up to meet me.
A mile or so later, I round a bend and see my dad on the road. We hug. He gives me the contents of the little box that arrived at my house a month ago, which I hadn’t opened until now. Inside is my PCT finisher’s medal. I ordered it after completing Ebbetts to Sonora back in September. With that hike, I completed the 2017 PCT.
I’m now 52 miles short of a continuous footpath from Mexico to Canada. I’ve walked through all of California and all of Oregon, and all but 52 miles of Washington. This is as far as I’ll get in 2018.