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Upper Mc Call Basin, Goat
Rocks Wilderness |
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According to my guide book, the Goat Rocks Wilderness promised me an alpine experience that I could revel in. Bob and I geared up and could not get out of work fast enough on this lunch-time Friday. A rather lengthy four and a half hour drive got us to the North Fork Tieton River Trailhead. Packs loaded, we paced ourselves in order to make lower Mc Call Basin by sundown.
The trail was a dusty mess and quite muddy in spots from frequent horses plodding through.
Looking at my watch, I realized the pace we were going was much slower than what was needed. I was not aware of any other places to camp other than Lutz Lake if we could not make the basin. Bob and I were tired form work as the cutbacks had taken their toll on the souls remaining.
I reached the junction at the PCT and glanced at my watch again. It was seven twenty with a bit of time left before the sun went behind the hills. The only problem was, where was Bob? I waited for a while, drinking water and snacking on a granola bar. Thirty minutes later, Bob arrived quite exhausted. We took a left at the intersection, heading towards Mc Call Basin, hoping to get there in time. As Bob was pretty beat, we decided to camp at Lutz Lake and made a small fire to rejoice over our decision. After dinner, which included me spilling my ramen (not a good thing in bear country), we both slept well.
The next morning, spirits were high as we packed quick and made off for the basin. We did not have far to go, making it there in forty five minutes, taking various pictures along the way.
We had the whole basin to ourselves. As overused as most of the campsites were, there was not a hiker to be seen. We arrived and scouted for the best place to camp. I suggested since we arrived so quickly, and I had a twelve pound while fully loaded pack, why not scout out a camp site further up. We forded the seasonal creeks, clear with their recent snowmelt, and headed to the upper portion of the basin.
My mood improved as the views did the same. Bob was the one now suggesting to push it higher. I scouted a minor shelf just opposite from the bottom of the Mc Call Glacier. We bushwhacked for some time, climbing minor scrambles, seeing more waterfalls unveil from behind the small cliffs.
We split up to search both sides of the creek. Bob was not sure where to camp and did not care. He took some time washing as the cold, clear water was too tempting to pass up. I continued to bushwhack, making it to the shelf, quickly setting up my tarp. The area was perfect. A large creek close by, three hundred sixty degree views, and a soft, sandy shelf to sleep on. Perfect. I set up the tarp in preparation for wind caused by the cooling air, flowing east, while descending from the top of the cirque. This setup also gave me the best view of the basin.
I treated water and spent some time washing off the "layer" as the day's heat was starting to build. As I dug a deep hole and started washing, Bob came up and passed me looking for another flat spot to set up his tent. No problem as the shelf had plenty of space. He set up near another minor seasonal snow-fed creek.
Washed up and Bob's tent all set up, we wandered off aimlessly, looking for something, but not knowing what. I glanced at my guide book and saw that Old Snowy Mountain was just south of camp. Getting to it would require quite a precarious scramble up to the ridge at the top of our cirque. The ridge held a section of the PCT, about a quarter mile before Packwood Glacier. We huffed up the carved out gullies and stopped frequently on the way up to catch our breaths and to ogle all the wild flowers.
As I had water being treated in camp, I scooped some out of the snowmelts, sans treatment. It was absolutely delicious, void of all the treatment methods used by civilization. Upon glancing up to spy our chosen route, I spotted Old Snowy Mountain to our left.
While looking down into the basin, I could still make out our tents, minute, but visible.
The path I chose was really quite simple, until the end. Follow a small ridgeline up, traverse right to a section where footholds were possible and then a ten foot class three section at the top. I waited for Bob to catch up before instructing the safest way to scramble up the final wall of the cirque.
At the top, without any drama, we rested and took in the views. The end of the last few feet of climbing was strange. As I lifted myself up the top of the ridge, it was only a few feet wide and the massive valleys beyond almost threw me off balance. I took the time at the top to drink and take pictures while resting. The views sported by our efforts were Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Adams, Mt Rainer, and Mt. Hood. I could not make them out too well given the fires we had, burning to the east.
We shouldered our packs and walked the PCT to the junction with Old Snowy. We ran into a few people, but less than I was anticipating. Thirty minutes, after crossing the Packwood Glacier, we were at the junction ready for the steep climb to the top. Before heading up, the large snowfield that the trail circumnavigated, offered us sub freezing water to drink. It was most likely the best water we ever had, being sweet in it's flavor.
More climbing made me feel in worse shape than I knew I was in. After last week's hike, I knew that twenty five mile days were easily completed. Although I had only come a few short miles this morning, I was already feeling tired. Blaming the heat, I trudged on stopping frequently for views.
The steep hike turned into a scramble as we neared the summit. Trying not to twist an ankle on the loose talus slopes was the only thing on my mind as I worked my way up, wearing trail runners.
Finally at 7930 feet above sea level we reached the top. The views and war whoops were abundant. We took some summit photos for good measure.
Happy to be on my second glaciated, if not feeble summit, I could not help to think this place rather small. I was getting used to the Olympics and wondered what was out here to see for future visits.
With Goat lake in the distance, I pondered camping there some weekend at the top of the ridge. Another goal to put in my long list.
I was hot. The down climb provided some shade at times, other times not. We reversed our route, getting back to camp before sundown. Once at camp, I worked on small, twelve inch fire pit while Bob took a nap.
With the setting sun, the wind came out and blessed me with cooled air from the glaciers above. I drank some Gatorade while reading Abbey, listening to the wind through the dwarfed bushes that surrounded our camp, content.
The sun set behind the background and with nothing else left to do, I started small coals for the fire. The land was still and the air, crisp. It cooled down fast as we were at sixty one hundred feet. A few dead twigs would suffice as the fire would be just large enough to cook some brats and be easily erased tomorrow.
The small fire blazed in the cold, night time air. With whiskey in hand, I gorged on brats, overeating. Stuffed, I passed out in front of the fire in comfort, as I found a great spot for Bob and I, protected from the cold wind. The fire warmed as well did the whiskey as I passed out once more after Bob headed off to bed for the night. I woke up to a spark burning my leg. Having such a small fire meant getting rather close and intimate to it. I managed to stand, kick out the fire, only falling down once, and stumbled to my tent.
The next morning, I was still drunk from the night before and striking camp was a chore, but was done with some kind of efficiency. I eradicated the fire pit slowly, waiting for Bob to finishing packing, making sure there was no trace. On the way back to the car, I drank all the water in my bags while sweating out the booze.
Upon arrival, I felt phenomenal. I changed clothes while waiting for Bob to arrive with the keys, and read more Abbey. Bob arrived and we quickly sped away to pick up Subway before the long drive home.
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