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Loowit
Trail, Mt. St. Helens |
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With a weekend all to myself I thought I would take the time to ponder a few personal goals I had been trying to think about during the week. Through the week, thousands of email, hundreds of customers, kids, and 3500 concrete pavers to reseat in a new bed of sand kept me from thinking of much else. My free weekends meant a lot to me but were bittersweet. Anyone that's a single full-time parent understands as your emotions take on a personality of their own and are seldom controlled by the owner as it takes a day or two to get used to your new re-found freedom.
To accelerate this process, I thought another romp around St. Helens would offer me the chance to think as well as evaluate weather last year's hellish circumambulation was real or all in my head. On Friday afternoon, my buddy Duane called and asked what I was doing for the weekend. After telling him my plans, he asked if he could tag along. I was feeling fit and new I could have time to myself if I wanted, so I agreed before we drove to night hike into June Lake.
The next morning I was full of enthusiasm and wanted an early start. The early morning mist was only huddled down in the valleys and the spots of hazy blue overhead gave signs of a beautiful day ahead. Duane wanted breakfast first, so I impatiently waited for him to eat as I chuckled about his food sack that a mouse had eaten his way into.
The climb up from the lake was effortless. I was a little worried as I have been cycling rather hard the last few weeks, but I felt strong, almost powerful, in a weird sort of hiking way. I passed my first glimpse of snow before spotting the baby dear track in its cup.
It did not take me long to start living deliberately, before the materialism back home meant nothing, before the memories of the PCT set feelings in motion. One thing I wanted to ponder today was a focal point for my drive, more specifically; cycling.
There was a point in my life where people cheered in the stands as raced by during a solo break. Now, I did not miss the cheering as I was breathing too hard then to hear anything while the searing pain from my legs tried to convince me they were undergoing an acupuncture session using sixteen penny nails. Rather, I missed the energy and the mental drive, the focus, I used to have to do those sort of things.
I climbed above timber line and munched on a Snickers while I waited for Duane. Duane was lost in the woods somewhere, but eventually, with enough hollering, found the trail and caught up amazed at the views.
The morning was cool, crisp, refreshing. I mused a while longer on the future as I thumped along at three miles per hour. Coming-to from my daydream, the reality of Muddy's condition was a concern as I did not want to take too long slogging through the devastation. I wanted to get into camp early to catch up on Thesiger before the fading light forced the flow of rum to stop and the eyes to droop involuntarily.
I rounded the last of the south flanks and spied Shoestring Glacier. The mountain had not changed much on the east side over the years. It just got prettier.
The best time to hike on the east side of Helens was in fall. The vast fields of Huckleberry and Wild Blueberry would be ripe and one could eat greedily while sauntering through the area. Even though we have had pretty high temperatures the last few days in the PNW, there was still quite the blanket over the mountain at its modest 8400 feet elevation.
I spotted the Muddy just over the next rise and had a sit to wait for Duane. The day was heating up and the cold water flowing from the snow was incredibly refreshing. Off came shoes and socks before laying back, resting my head on my pack, and drifting off into a semi-conscious siesta.
Duane eventually met up with me as I woke refreshed, feeling like I had not yet begun hiking. He looked like a kid in a candy shop sporting a substantial permagrin. We left our snow field as Duane let out a gasp. The hardest obstacle was directly in front of us, although much easier to navigate encircling the mountain counter-clockwise. "You sure we can do this?" He asked with uncertainty.
I assured him it was doable as I did it completely wiped out last year traveling in the harder clockwise direction. It really didn't look too difficult from where we were. Maybe it was because I was not worried, or maybe I was just feeling so much better than the year before.
We carefully made our way down before I picked a line up the other side. Duane was not confident in my route finding and went to find his own. I picked my way up, just up from the waterfall, while following other's footsteps.
Past Muddy, the upcoming miles were fast and easy. I quickened my pace as I simply felt phenomenal. Just before the spring, I stopped to chat with a group of guys from Portland. One owned a frolicking mini Siberian Husky that I thought rather cute and wanted to greet, but it was more interested in chasing the local wildlife, nearly falling off the cliff during the pursuit. The owner chuckled and mentioned that is how his last mini died.
Once on the north side of Helens everything changes. The immensity of the area distorts ones view, making one think it is smaller than what it really is. The thought of standing on what once was a deep valley made me smile.
I met up with Duane at the spring who was all smiles. He filtered some water before we took off for Windy Pass. He mentioned that an old injury in his knee was rearing its ugly head again, but assured me he was doing just fine.
Indeed he looked ship-shape as one could not help but to see the fascination he had for such a wonder as this.
I stopped at a seasonal creek for a long rest and to dry gear before the dusty slog up to Windy Pass. I was soon joined by two older gentlemen just as Duane arrived. One asked me if we were camping here before I leisurely answered no as I thought it was illegal. This got the grumpy old man all fired up as he heatedly insisted was told by a ranger it was legal to camp here. I did not argue with Max Goldman and just told him what the NFS web site had shown me. He grumbled disbelief while stomping off in a huff. This made for some very funny jokes between Duane and I for the rest of the day.
The "negative ions", as Bobby frequently mentioned, were in full force as I stood drying in the wind. I stood there thinking about a goals and what they meant, or rather, how much they meant to me. I have always been goal driven, almost to the point of obsession, and cycling was no different. If I put my mind to it, it would happen. The question was how much I wanted to give up for this goal to take form.
As I made my way to Loowit Falls, a fragrance I have never experienced before on this mountain saturated the very air I was breathing. It was wonderful and rich, thick as any smoke as the breeze just made the aroma more potent. I waded through thick bushels of purple stretching out in all directions, dominating the landscape.
Once through the purple swaths of fragrance, I gawked at Spirit Lake, hoping the directions to the lake I gave my fellow Portlander's was accurate.
Duane was nowhere in sight. I had a quick trail-side conversation with a pretty girl heading to the falls before I thought another nap was in order. There was not much shade so I lathered on a thick coat of sunscreen before lying back on my pack.
Sipping semi-cool water while gazing into the mouth of the 1980 eruption put my mind at ease as I drifted in and out of consciousness. As much as I wanted to simply hike and think, the peace brought forth from relaxing in such a dramatic place was too strong to resist.
Duane caught up once again, waking me from my slumber. We shuffled across the Sasquatch Steps, but not until wasting an hour looking for my only water bladder that bailed out of my pack after jumping the Loowit. I was now in a funk. Even though Duane gave up one of his Nalgene bottles, I hate losing gear, especially when I knew we were heading into the driest part of the hike.
Eventually my mood improved as I was fully hydrated and we were nearing the Toutle anyway. My body still felt remarkably strong as I thought we may have time to get up Castle Ridge tonight. I knew of a couple choice camp sites at the top and they would keep us out of the condensing mists that we experienced at June Lake.
I arrived at the ash scramble, and plodded my way straight down. I felt good and made excellent time into the canyon. Duane was having real problems with his knee, but I could see him as a small dot behind me, so over the ledges I went, sliding down washes to finally meet my old friend the Toutle. I made dinner along its shoreline while Duane looked for a way down to where I was. He eventually reached me and told me of his weary legs and knee. We set up camp on the other side before the mist rolled in for the night.
In the morning, Duane awoke when I did as we both wanted to get home early. I missed the kids and really wanted to start planning the return to racing before the weekend was over. I packed up my five base pounds of gear and set off up the ridge. It was warm and humid. As I hate hiking in these conditions, I went very slow, probably a mile and half per hour to avoid sweating and it would give Duane time to catch up.
The climb was effortless, almost surreal, and I stopped frequently to look at the vistas my effort afforded. The mist, deep in the valley, was still thick and would remain there until the early afternoon giving a feeling of being higher in elevation than I was.
I stopped and stared into the Toutle River Valley while gulping down swigs of water. I imagined what this area looked like in 1980 and shivered at the thought. I soon realized the shivering was not caused by the thought, but rather the chill from the increasing wind. The wind was picking up and I set off at a quickened pace to build warmth.
I love ridge walks, even though the exposure can leave its mark in many different ways, the views are still worth it. I passed the camp sites I thought of the day before in disappointment. They were perfect in every way. They were flat with a little duff on the ground, they had fire rings, and one even had a large snowfield next to it.
Right after climbing Castle Ridge, a crossing of Sheep Canyon was required before Blue's reroute. After crossing Sheep, I waited for Duane for until the chill of the cool morning air penetrated my skin and began to chill me to the bone. I walked briskly towards Blue before pounding down the west side of the wash. I stumbled across it to find a beautiful, flat area to nap while I waited for Duane. I could have kept moving, heck, I felt like I could have done ten additional miles yesterday, but I wanted to make sure he was not hurt before tackling the next obstacle. I awoke to his piercing whistle and packed up before snapping a shot of him climbing out of the Blue.
Duane's feet were starting to hurt and his right boot had string tied all around the heal to keep it from falling off. That paired with his sore knee meant slow going, but he was still having a great time.
As the terrain eased, the distance and scenery became more enjoyable. It was always beautiful, but usually your mind is preoccupied with trying not to fall. I took advantage and scooped large handfuls of ice from one of the many vast snowfields I crossed. Cold water ran down my arms as I slurped on the frozen snow while I walked, smiling as I took a bite and crunched on my hand-made snow cone.
At the Butte Camp junction, I spotted a marmot and was amazed. Just behind the handsome lad below, there was another one grazing in the background. I have not seen one up here in all my years. I am sure they were here at one time, but it was sure nice to see them back.
I strolled through the area, enjoying the contrasts of heat in the air with the snow on the ground. While the trail bobbed up and down, I felt the waves of heat and cold as I severed their streams while moving forward. Even though there was a lot of snow still on the ground, there was no doubt it would be all gone in a couple of weeks time.
I hopped powerfully over the lava fields, passing many other hikers out for the day. I was not racing, but just felt very good and moved at a comfortable pace. I reached Chocolate falls and, as Duane was nowhere in sight, took another nap in the trees. The mist was starting to build overhead and kept the suns heat at bay. Eventually Duane caught up as we went our own paces back to the truck. I met up with a strong-looking younger lad out doing trail work from WTA. I conveyed that the trail was in the best shape I have seen yet as he smiled with pleasant satisfaction. We chatted all the way back to the truck where I met the rest of the group before finally changing. I could think of no better way to spend a weekend.
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