We hit the trail just before 11:00 am, and soon had to stop to put on our snowshows. There was about a foot of fresh snow to plow through. Some of the steeper sections were crusty ice, and the cleats on the snowshoes were a necessity. The wind whipped harder as we slogged higher, and intermittent sleet stung our faces.

We both kept tabs on our GPS units, and they eventually showed us wandering too far to the right. I distrusted the data, and kept heading up what I thought was the correct ridgeline. I heard Rob yell at me from below, and turned around to see him waving his map. By that time I was reluctantly concluding that we were indeed off-course, but the slope was too steep for me to turn around, so I continued to the top of the ridge and waited for Rob. I extended one of my hiking poles to Rob, he used it to pull himself up onto the ridge, and we dashed behind a boulder to escape the driving gale. “I don’t think we’ll be breaking out today,” I yelled to Rob, stating the obvious. We turned and rushed back down the ridgeline. I had a terrible time seeing through the blowing sleet, and judging the steepness of the slope was impossible. Everything was just too white. I removed my snowshoes, dug my heels in, and gingerly descended the steep slope, inevitably thinking back to my slip on Granite Mountain two years ago.

Rob fed us jellybeans to keep us going, and we happily used the “track back” feature of our GPS units to keep us on the route. Even though we only made it halfway to Muir, it turned out to be quite an adventure!

The traverse from Si to Teneriffe was new to me. We broke trail through the undisturbed snow, following old logging roads, until we joined the main route to Teneriffe. At this point, we were able to follow the tracks of others, and we eventually passed a group of snowshoers. The summit of Teneriffe was a sharp ridge of snow. The wind was blasting on one side, but calm on the other. Fortunately, we were on the calm side, but we had to be careful not to loose our footing and tumble back down into the trees (been there, done that).

We slogged back the way we came, taking a break to eat Laurie’s pumpkin muffins. The muffin power helped us back over to Mount Si. The views were great, and the snow was beautiful in the trees. But it’s spring now, so the snow can hurry up and melt. A nice, warm, dry trail would be a welcome change of pace.

“There’s a mouse! He’s RIGHT THERE. Doug, set up the tent NOW. I am NOT sleeping outside tonight!” Marylene didn’t seem to be appreciating the aesthetics of sleeping out in the open, under the stars.

I walked over to my pack to make sure I hadn’t left any food lying around, and, sure enough, a little rodent scampered away from my headlamp beam. We had some good food containers, though, and our supply went unmolested.

Our first full day began leisurely in the sunshine. We did all of our hiking in the afternoon when the tides were ebbing. The morning was spent lolling around the beach. I couldn’t resist the big ocean waves, so I waded out and splashed around a bit. I got progressively braver (i.e. stupider), and walked out further to let a couple of the monster waves smash me down and wash me ashore like a little piece of driftwood.

Blood on the Beach
I was looking at some tide pools when I noticed that Phil and Laurie had stopped to wait for the others, so I ambled over to wait with them. Approaching, I was stunned to see streams of blood running down Laurie’s forehead. She had smacked into a tree branch, and the wound was deep. Phil was scrambling to find the first-aid kit, which actually turned out to be in my pack. We fumbled through the disorganized pile of gauze, bandages, ointments, and other medical paraphernalia to find something to patch the hole in Laurie’s head.

“Should we use these alcohol things? What about Neosporin? We have something called Polysporin, is that the same thing? What about this stuff … no that’s for insect bites. Should we apply pressure … wait let’s put that flap of skin back in place first.”

Phil did the doctoring. The best I could do was hand Phil some damp toilet paper to wipe the blood from Laurie’s face (I used the bloody paper to start a fire the following morning – worked great). Laurie was very calm and patient, as we bumbled around. Soon she was up and marching down the beach with big bandage on her head and bloodstains on her shirt.

A Little Side Trip
Laurie and I got a head start on the second day (Palm Sunday), so we could do a side trip into Ozette Lake. The inland trek through the rainforest was a nice change of pace. We came to a premature halt when we couldn’t immediately find a way to cross a murky brown river without swimming. My first attempt at tight roping across on a narrow log ended in utter failure as I fell splashing into the river. Fortunately, we discovered another log that worked quite well. I just wish we would’ve spotted it sooner. Since I was already mostly wet, I completed the process by jumping into Lake Ozette. I stayed in for a grand total of about 4 seconds.

Farthest West
Geographers will tell you that Cape Alava is the westernmost point in the continental United States. But don’t you believe it! Just look at a map, and you will see a feature called Tskawahyah Island that sticks out further than Cape Alava, and you can walk there on dry land. Well, okay, it only works if the tide is low.

On Monday, Rob, Laurie, and I arrived a little too late for low tide, so we had to wade across a long stretch of knee-deep water to get to Tskawahyah Island. It took a bit of cajoling to convince Rob that it was worth it, and Laurie hitched a ride, so she didn’t even get her hiking boots wet.

After a few days expansive vistas, salty breezes, slimy kelp, battered driftwood, and, now, hiking boots filled with seawater, I felt at home on the ocean (and in the ocean). But I guess all things must come to an end, so it was back to soft beds and hot showers for our motley crew.

“Nope, you can’t take your bikes in the tulip fields.”

“Well, we don’t have a lock to lock them up, so we have to take them with us.”

“Nope, not allowed.”

“C’mon, we’re not going to ride them, we’re just going to walk them.”

“Nope.”

I don’t have much patience for rules that don’t make sense to me, so ordinarily I would’ve just gone down the road and crossed over into the tulip fields anyway, bike or no bike. But, since Laurie was with me, I restrained myself.

We spent the rest of our 40 mile ride trying to figure out where we were going to find a bike lock in the middle of farm country on a Sunday afternoon. I could possibly leave my bike unattended, but Laurie’s bike is very nice, so we needed a lock. I had given up all hope of tiptoeing through the tulips, when Laurie rode up behind me with the obvious solution.

“Why don’t we just throw the bikes in the car when we’re done riding, drive back to the tulip gardens, lock the car, and then go for a walk in fields.”

Oh yeah. I forgot about the car. Everything worked out after all.

I handed the officer my driver’s license.

“Did you know you were doing 42 in a 25?”

“No, I guess didn’t realize that.”

He shone his flashlight in the car. We looked back at him meekly. He glanced at me with my sun scorched face and bloodshot eyes, at Rob with his matted bandana hair, and at Doug in the back seat peeking above his blanket.

“Looks like you’ve had a long day. I’m gonna save you a $170 ticket and just make this a warning … What have you been doing anyway?”

I thanked him and gave him the short answer. Here’s the longer version:

No Bridge
The sign at the trailhead read, “Bridge Out 1/4 mile (Not crossable)”. This matter-of-fact warning played no role in our decision making process, and we happily marched off into the woods. The route from Christine Falls to Camp Hazard begins at 3,600′ and ends at 11,600′, an even 8000′ of gain. This is the most strenuous day hike that I know of. We soon found that the sign at the trailhead was accurate, so we bushwacked upstream until we found enough stepping stones to get across the stream, and we were on our way.

No Water
I reached behind me to grab my water bottle only to find it missing. “Dang, I can’t believe I just lost another water bottle,” I thought. Fortunately I had an extra quart in my pack, so I dug it out and placed it in the outside pocket for easy access.

We came to a stream near Comet Falls and searched for a place to get across. It ran through a canyon of sheer snow walls about 10 feet deep. Fortunately we found a snow bridge that spanned it. I was thinking, “Boy it’s a good thing we don’t have to climb down those vertical snowbanks to get across.” At that very moment, my water bottle shot out of its pocket and went sliding over the edge into the river, floated for a short ways, and lodged itself in some rocks. I was now waterless. I hesitated, wondering what to do. I decided that I should at least try to retrieve it, so I gingerly lowered myself down the snow wall, grabbed the bottle, and gingerly eased my way back up. Whew!

I was pleased with the recovery effort, and happily put the bottle back in the outside pocket. Yes, the very same pocket which had twice failed to hold it’s contents. The flaw in my logic didn’t occur to me until 15 minutes later when I reached around to find nothing but empty pocket. Okay, I think I need a new system for my water bottles. Doug graciously loaned me some water, and, to augment that, I spent the rest of the hike munching on snow chunks.

No Key
The hike was nothing short of brutal. I felt very nauseous, as I always do at altitude. We didn’t linger too long at Camp Hazard, since the hour was late. We needed our headlamps for the last couple of miles, and we finally reached the car after a 14 hour round trip!

We wearily drove down the winding park road until we came to an abrupt halt at Longmire. The gate was locked tight, and we couldn’t get out! I was irritated and shivering from lack of calories, but there was nothing to do but try to find someone with a key. As luck would have it, one light was on in a nearby residence. A teenager was surfing the internet and listening to music with his headphones. We got his attention. “I’m new here,” he said, “but I have a bunch of keys. We could try ‘em, but I have no idea if they’ll work.” We walked back to the gate, and after a couple of trys, he found one that turned the padlock, and we were free! Free, at least until we were detained by the Eatonville police.

Snake Watch
We hadn’t gone more than a mile when a big long snake slithered out onto the trail in front of me. I tried not to scream like a schoolgirl, but I’m not sure I succeeded – it’s kind of a blur. Snakes really freak me out. It didn’t have a rattle though (another hiker later told us it was probably a King Snake).

Laurie bravely took the lead, on snake patrol, and I happily followed in her wake. A few miles later, she gasped, stopped short, and backed into me. At her feet, another snake squirmed off the trail. This one DID have a rattle! “Okay, that’s enough for me, Pete”, said Laurie, “It’s your turn for snake duty!” We marched on, a little paranoid. Curvy branches started looking like rattlesnakes to me, and I would occasionally come to a skidding stop. “What? What is it?” Laurie asked from behind. “Oh, sorry, it’s just a branch. Whew! Scared me.”

The GoLite Guy and The Ol’ Timers
As we went along, we kept leapfrogging a guy with a diminutive pack. Personally, I was pleased to have gotten my pack weight down to 40 lbs, but this guy’s pack was 12 lbs! He just had the bare essentials. No tent, no stove, and probably no water filter – folks just seemed to be drinking straight from the lake.

On the other end of the spectrum were the four “Ol’ Timers” that we met in Stehekin. They’d been doing this trip almost every year since the 1970′s. These guys took a leisurely 5 days to do the 17 miles, and hauled monster packs. One guy had a mandolin, and I could’ve sworn that another pulled an ice cream bar out of his pack! Coincidentally, some of them knew a few of Laurie’s relatives, so we had a fun time talking as we waited for the boat.

The boat ride back to Chelan took four hours, and the mandolin guy provided some entertainment for awhile. I finally stumbled back to my front door by 11:00 P.M. on Sunday, pretty much maxing out the available weekend hours.

We went out and back for a total of 14 miles, and never saw a single hiker! Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the bridge across Thunder Creek was obliterated, there was a rope stretched across the trail, and there were several signs implying that the route was impassable. After driving 2 ½ hours to get here, however, we weren’t going to be easily deterred. So, we carefully weaved, twisted, and tiptoed our way across the big logjam until we were safely on the other side. Piece of cake!

The trail gradually became more wild, with several blowdowns and bridgeless streams beyond McAllister Creek. We stopped at Fisher Creek since this looked a tricky crossing, and it seemed like a good enough spot to have lunch and turn around. We had a few rain sprinkles here and there, but it really started pouring once we started to drive home. Got out just in time!

On paper, it’s not that much trouble to hike 10 or 12 or 14 miles per day up this peak, down that valley, and over that pass. On paper, a 50 pound pack doesn’t seen overly burdensome. No problem.

Well, the paper got rapidly revised as we sluggishly trudged our way up to Windy Peak, the highest point in the Pasayten Wilderness. Our planned 30-mile trek diluted itself down to a picture taking, view enjoying weekend covering 20 miles, if that.

That’s okay.

The wide open spaces were spectacular, but we had to share Horseshoe Basin with hoardes of nasty mosquitos. We had to keep moving, even while eating dinner, to escape their hungry onslaught. The intermittent cold wind helped to keep the bugs down, and the smoke from our campfire also made a difference.

“By the way, are we allowed to have fires up here”, Laurie asked.

“It doesn’t matter, up here we’re above the law”, I replied, being a smart aleck.

Laurie looked at Rob. “Yep”, he said, “the law is at a much lower elevation”.

Laurie just rolled her eyes.