Friday, September 26, 2014

A Week on the Pacific Crest Trail

I had a feeling that if anything was to go terribly wrong, it would be the smallest, silliest misstep. I was going to backpack by myself for 100 miles, and I was far more worried about twisting an ankle than getting mauled by a bear or coming across guys with guns.

I was also worried about snow covering the trail, as it was still a little early (end of July-early August) for this section of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) north of Stevens Pass. I knew there was some snow to some extent above 5,000 feet, but it was impossible to know exactly what that would look like until I was there.
A big thanks to my dear friend Max who drove me to Stevens Pass bright and early before his work day. I sat at the trailhead eating breakfast feeling a little apprehensive. I had never backpacked more than a night by myself. I was really excited but didn't quite know what to expect. 

The plan was to follow the PCT north, walk along the western flank of Glacier Peak, around to the north near the Suiattle River, and then meet a friend at Cloudy Pass before hiking out at Lake Chelan.
Glacier Peak from the south
I was signing the trail register when I noticed a man sitting in the shade, with a solar charger in the sun. He had long grey hair under a cap, and dark hiking clothes, and for some reason made me think of a trucker. Yet, upon closer inspection, I noticed his hot pink nail polish, hot pink USB cable, and pink flip flops dangling from his backpack.

We started chatting, and I discovered that he had started the PCT at the Mexico border in April, and had done most of the trail, with a couple gaps here and there. He had a tall, wooden walking stick that he had made in the seventh grade, with grip tape wrapped in- you guessed it- hot pink. He was taking advantage of the access to data at the pass to watch YouTube videos. I started hiking, knowing he would probably pass me soon.

The first day was HOT. And my pack was heavy. I established a routine that day of an afternoon break at either a lake or river, to soak my tired feet in cold water. That night I camped on Grizzly Peak, where there was one campsite at the high point. I made dinner, though the mosquitoes were so bad that I couldn't sit still to eat it. I ate pacing back and forth on the trail as the sun went down.
The second day sent me down low into a river valley. I passed two separate south-bound through-hikers, and a father and son hiking a small section.

I stopped at Pear Lake to filter water, and had the worst mosquito experience of my life. The cloud of mosquitoes at the lake was so thick it looked like a plague. I put on a long sleeve shirt and bug net to pump, and still got eaten alive.

In the afternoon, Big Stick caught up to me. It was great to have company and we climbed back up a couple thousand feet onto an exposed ridge trail and toward Lake Sally Ann. It was another sweltering day, and all I had wanted all day was to swim in the lake. When we arrived it was early evening, and there was still sun on the water. But the lake was about half frozen so there was ice as well!
Campsite on Lake Sally Ann
There was a nice spot at the edge of the lake with good access, and I hung out by on the rocks with Big Stick and two older Canadian couples backpacking together who were hiking the whole length of the Washington PCT in sections over two summers. People were chatting convivially, soaking feet, rinsing socks, pumping water, and debating an icy swim.

I decided to jump in, and the two Canadian guys followed. It would be one of my favorite evenings of the trip, with a friend to eat dinner with, warm evening air, sweeping views, and a stunning lingering sunset.

The third day was when the trail started getting seriously beautiful. I was already up fairly high, around 5,000 feet, and the trail stayed high on a ridge traverse all day. Even though I haven't been to the Alps, that's what I kept thinking of, with the rolling expanses of alpine meadows and big peaks in the background.

I passed a Forest Service/Washington Trails Association trail crew, a Boy Scout troop, a handful of weekend hikers, and a woman who is a photographer and writer for the Mountaineers. I also got a striking view of the Chiwaukum Creek area forest fire smoke.
I had never heard the term Pyrocumulus cloud, but that's what it was- a huge cloud formed from the heat of the fire. It can also happen with volcanic activity. At one point climbing up toward Red Pass, I just stood and stared at the plume along with the writer lady. She said it reminded her of seeing Mount Saint Helens erupt in 1980.

We parted ways and I finished the climb up to Red Pass at 6,300 feet. I crossed from the south-facing ascent to a north-facing descent, hitting patches of snow on the trail and getting a new view of the smoke as I started dropping into the White Chuck Cinder Cone valley.
It was about that point that I realized how sunburned I was, especially the back of my legs. The first couple days had been mostly in the shade, but the beautiful ridge traverse of today meant a full day of blazing sun.

I descended a few thousand feet that evening to the Baekos River. There were a handful of great campsites, but I was the only one there. It was time for some self-care- I soaked my burning legs in the icy river, tended to blisters, and made myself drink a ton of water. I kept expecting more hikers to show up or at least hike by. But it was eerily quiet. Little did I know that I would go two more days without seeing another human.

On Day 4 the trail and the hike completely changed. 

It went from maintained and well-trodden to rugged and solitary. First of all, there were a lot of creek crossings. These were either crossable on logs or rocks, or if that wasn't possible, I would have to change into sandals to walk through the water.
There were also bridges, but some of the bridges were in rough shape, damaged or completely washed out from earlier avalanches and fast, rushing melt out.
Uh, is this safe to cross?
This bridge has clearly seen better days
Also slowing me down was the endless fallen logs and debris on the trail.
It was always a question of whether to go over or under the log.
Sometimes neither were possible.
I think the trail is in there somewhere...
Log and branch obstacle course
Brushy trail through thimbleberries
It got harder to cover my daily mileage because I was constantly crossing creeks, climbing over logs, and bushwhacking. Oh, the fourth day was also the day I came across the snow. At that point, since I had seen little more than patches of snow here and there, I had stopped worrying about it. But as I climbed up toward Fire Creek Pass at 6,400 feet, I was hitting way more snow than I had seen so far, and kept losing the trail.
It was a beautiful view from up there, and the sun shone warmly. But it was nearly 5pm and I still had five miles I wanted to cover. And the descent dropped steeply before flattening out above Mica Lake. I looked at where I needed to go with trepidation. What would have normally been a switchback trail on a steep slope was covered in snow. The snow wasn't soft enough to plunge step, yet the very top layer was melty enough on top of the hard snow that it was really slippery.

Should I even attempt this? I wondered. I stood staring between my map and the landscape I could see. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. I would have liked to have an ice ax and crampons. But I certainly hadn't wanted to carry those things if I didn't need them- and why was this section so much worse than other passes of the same elevation? Red Pass had been no big deal at all.

For the record, descents are much scarier for me than ascents. I didn't grow up skiing or snowboarding, so steep snow is still fairly unfamiliar. Plus, the situation was compounded by being alone. I wanted to be very conservative in my decision-making, considering I was so far out with so few people passing by. This is not the place to break a leg, I told myself sternly.

In a patch of bare dirt before the descent, I could see the words "Big Stick :)" etched. On the snow, I could also see the fat indentation of his walking stick, a distinct quarter-size impression that was different from the tiny dot of trekking poles.

I felt comforted knowing that he had gone down this way in tennis shoes and a wooden stick. I also felt comforted knowing I had some mountaineering skills under my belt from the basic mountaineering class I took this spring. Honestly, if I hadn't taken that class, I would have seriously considered not continuing. 

Instead, I took the snow basket off one of my trekking poles and shortened it, getting ready to use it like an ice ax. I put away the other pole, tightened my pack, and began crossing the steep snow toward the exposed trail, kicking steps. It was tiring. I self-belayed with the pole, and hacked into the hillside with the toe of my boot on step at a time. I was just five feet from reaching the bare trail when I slipped. I started sliding but quickly self-arrested with my pole. From there since I was already below the trail, I just continued down the basin on the snow. It was slow-going as I was very cautious. Finally I got to where I could see Mica Lake, but I wasn't positive where the trail went. 
Looking back to what I descended on Fire Creek Pass
I was getting pretty tired, and briefly considered just camping on the snow and continuing in the morning. But I realized the snow would be harder in the morning. Plus, I was meeting a friend on Cloudy Pass in a couple days, and I couldn't just forgo those last five miles of the day, as it would be really hard to cover the extra miles later. 

I pressed on, walking to overlooks to scout out the route, and reconsulting my map. One section I ended up down-climbing the rock because that seemed safer than the snow. One part by the lake I followed a trail that ended up dead-ending at a campsite. 

I finally made it below the lake and the trail was snow-free. By that time it was around 7:30pm and I had covered probably 3/4 of a mile since the pass. I was so relieved to be able to walk on a trail though. I descended on the steep hillside on endless switchbacks down toward the next river. 

There were more gnat-like bugs in the air than I have ever experienced anywhere. I ate about 10 and probably 15 flew into my eyeball before I finally pulled out my mosquito net to protect my face. Now I was cruising! It was just getting dark, so I pulled out my headlamp and walked as fast as I could.

I skidded to a halt as my headlamp illuminated a hole gouged in the middle of the trail. Like, there was no trail, just the remnants of a landslide and rocky scree that dropped off to 40 feet below. The section of missing trail was probably eight feet wide- impossible to step or jump across. I stared at the empty space in disbelief. 

This wasn't fair! A rough trail is one thing... but no trail at all? I backed up, and climbed up into the brush and small trees above the trail. It was incredibly steep, and my heart was pounding as I crossed uphill of the hole, holding tightly to saplings and shrubs in a "veggie belay" method.

I finally set up camp around 10pm and was too tired to even eat dinner. I had a couple piece of beef jerky and crawled into bed.

Day 5 took me back up and out of the that river valley. There were patches of snow, but nothing like the day before.
It was another hot, sunny day, and I got gorgeous view of the glaciers on Glacier Peak.
Late that afternoon, as I descended into the Suiattle River valley, I stopped on a log to have a snack. After two days of expecting to see someone, I was completely started when a man came around the bend.

He was a south-bound through-hiker from Kentucky named Cowgirl. We were both happy to have some company. He joined me on the log, and we chatted and rested and swapped trail info. Because the south-bounders start from Canada and it's still a bit early-season, they expect snow in a way the north-bounders don't. He had an ice ax and I gave him a heads-up about Fire Creek. 

I asked him about the upcoming trail junction- there was an old PCT trail that crossed the Suiattle sooner, but it was questionable how defined the old trail was, and how safe the old crossing. The new trail added five miles, but went across the new and huge Suiattle bridge. He had actually taken the old route, but he said that even with GPS it had been pretty hard to find. 

While we were sitting there, thunder rolled a couple times. I did notice that it seemed darker than usual for that time of day, but I thought nothing of it. I wanted to hang out longer, happy to have a friend, but we both wanted to cover a few more miles that evening. I had about three more miles to the river. So we said farewell and I bounded on.

No more than five minutes after leaving Cowgirl, something hit me on the head. Ouch! I thought, thinking something had fallen out of a tree. Then in an instant of thunder and a whooshing noise, I realized I was getting pelted by large hailstones. I was so shocked at this sudden change from the hot, dry weather that I didn't know what to do. I had barely even seen hail this big in western Washington. The hail turned to sheets of rain as lightning lit the trees. Should I set up my tent now and take shelter from the storm? I wondered. 

But again, I really wanted to cover my miles so that I didn't get behind schedule. I quickly stopped to weather-proof my pack. I stuffed my sleeping bag into a dry bag, put everything on the outside of my pack inside, put my iPod and camera in a ziplock, and threw on my pack cover. Then I pressed on.

I was pretty wet, but it wasn't too cold as long as I was moving. The rain retreated to a drizzle, then a sprinkle. I was now on the new section of PCT that had just been built along with the new bridge. It was completely flat, wide, and free of fallen logs. I could walk blissfully fast and unimpeded. Old growth cedar and hemlock rose up around me like titans, wrapped in the post-storm mist and glowing with the grey-silver of the sky. It was probably my favorite hiking experience of the whole trip. The only other place I had seen this much old-growth in a river valley in Washington was on the Hoh River trail in the Olympics. It was stunningly timeless and beautiful, and I felt supremely happy to be there, even alone and soaking wet.

The next day was my last day alone. I left the Suiattle River and started the steady ascent up toward Suiattle Pass. I passed a large group in an adult Outward Bound mountaineering class, as well as young south-bound French couple who planning to make it all the way to Mount Whitney. 

There were breaks of sun in the cloudy sky, but in the afternoon I heard thunder again. This time, I wouldn't be caught unprepared. I again battened down the hatches on my pack and put away my electronics. Sure enough, about 15 minutes later, the downpour and lightning started. By the time I got to my trail junction, it had stopped. Right before Suiattle Pass, I exited the PCT and headed toward Cloudy Pass.
Leaving Suiattle Pass, crossing scree field to get to Cloudy Pass
And there was my friend waiting for me, just as we had planned. It was so surreal to hike for nearly a week, then one day just come across a friend on a pass in Glacier Peak Wilderness. We had planned to camp there, but with the lightning storm decided to get off the pass and head to Lyman Lake about a mile down below.
View of Lyman Lake from Cloudy Pass
We set up camp, then went to hang by the lake. He had brought two beers, which were chilling in the water. It was so nice to be with a familiar face, sip a beer, and just be able to sit and enjoy that beautiful alpine lake. What wasn't so awesome though was the number of mosquitoes. The temperature was mild, not cold but not warm, but I had to completely cover up. Even though it wasn't hot out, I couldn't resist taking a swim in lake.
Enjoying a beer with maximum mosquito protection
The next day we hiked out, covering about a dozen more miles. It was sunny again, as we passed waterfalls, sweeping vistas, and more lakes.
I had had a fabulous week, and was really proud to have done it mostly on my own. I had made it without any catastrophe, and felt good about my decision-making, from packing to route-finding.

I caught a ride back to Seattle from Chelan, and started getting ready for Phase 2 of my summer vacation- climbing Mount Rainier! To be continued...

Sunday, July 27, 2014

I Can't Stop Smiling... Summer Break!

I've been trying for months to figure out my plans for a big summer backpacking trip, but the logistics were complicated and kept changing. When I finally decided to scrap my original plan, a fabulous new one quickly took its place.

It was a lesson in letting go of things that aren't working, and clearing space for new adventures. I'm now planning to hike a section of the Washington Pacific Crest Trail, and then attempt to climb Rainier!

The morning I finally decided that, this song came into my head as I rode my bike to work. It's I can't stop smiling by Velocity Girl, from one of the first CD's I ever owned in 8th grade.

I can't stop smiling
and I don't know why
I'd want to anyway. 

Yes, I am sometimes that crazy person belting out a song while riding her bike on Dexter Avenue.

I'm looking forward to having some time to myself, and some solid time outside to really wear myself out. Sometimes I feel like a puppy, like I just need to play outside and get tired to be really happy.

But it's been a fabulous summer so far in Seattle. Last week we got some serious rain, but otherwise it's been an amazingly (almost eerily) hot and sunny past month. I've done some fun bike rides, like out to Magnuson Park to go swimming and chase down the popsicle man.

I did a ride around the southern portion of Lake Washington, where I made a very important discovery: The Seahawks belong to Renton! Seattle did not with the Super Bowl at all!
The garden is doing its thing...

And it's been wonderful to eat from the garden, eat what's local, and share food with friends. Sometimes the house white board on our kitchen fridge looks like this:
There's also been time to hang with my sisters and nieces, play in park, and hang on boats.






Catch you on the flip side!

Friday, July 25, 2014

Backpacking with Mom

It wasn't even me who suggested it. My mom asked if I would take her backpacking! I was excited that she wanted to go, especially since the only time she has been backpacking was once with a church group about 28 years ago. So we picked a date, made a packing list, and headed out after work on a Friday. We headed up to a trailhead just past Verlot off the Mountain Loop Highway. 

I told a friend where I was going and she said, "Isn't that near where the mother and daughter were found shot in the woods a few years back? Oh sorry, I really shouldn't bring that up."

I remembered hearing about it, and it was incredibly sad and devastating on so many levels. For one thing, they never found the perpetrator: Who killed two hikers near Mt Pilchuck? But that type of random violence is so rare, and even family of the victims urged hikers to not be scared to keep going out there: Family of Slain women: Don't be Afraid.

I simply wanted to go somewhere close, uncrowded, with a short hike in, and with a lake to swim in. Our spot fit the bill perfectly and we had a warm, pleasant hike in, and no one else there.
We arrived just as the sun was going behind the cliff walls. We set up camp, made dinner, and sipped tea while sitting on logs. We read poetry in the tent and then got a good night's sleep.
My mom was super enthusiastic about everything. The great thing about backpacking with some one who hasn't been in so long, is that all the gear that she's familiar with has come such a long way. She couldn't believe how easy the tent was to set up, how small the stove was, how compact the sleeping bag, how comfy the air mattress, or how light the backpack.

In the morning, still fairly early, we left camp to take a short walk to the privy. It was still a little early for day hikers, and there was no one else around. But then we rounded a bend and suddenly came upon two guys in their early 20's, looking disconcertingly out of place by the lakeside, dressed best as I can describe, like white trash/90's skinheads. And one holding a huge rifle with bayonet.

With my heart pounding, I said a friendly Good Morning as we walked past. My mind was racing as I struggled to reconcile what these guys might be doing here, and how odd it was that I have never once seen people casually wielding firearms in the woods, except this area with a history of an unsolved mother/daughter homicide. It would have been different if they looked like hunters. In fact, I myself enjoy hunting, and am not unfamiliar with being around guns. But these guys were completely out of an understandable context, compounded by thoughts of knowing that they would have seen our lone car at the trailhead. Also, I didn't know it at the time, but the date of horrible double homicide in 2006 had been July 11th; we were there on July 12th.

I felt absolutely sick to my stomach. I felt so vulnerable and defenseless. And then angry. I was here to enjoy being in nature, and have a nice time with my mom, and I had a whole wonderful life in front of me and I was not going to be a news story. I was on high alert with adrenaline racing as we walked back to the campsite, and even as I started making breakfast. Were they hiding somewhere watching us, sniper style? I told my mom I was still pretty sketched out. She said, "I think our best defense is kindness. If they come back here we should offer them a cup of coffee."

We heard voices and footsteps on the trail, and I tensed up. I have never been so happy to see two middle-aged men in hiking garb walk by. My blood pressure finally started going down, and I could fully enjoy just hanging with my mom. We took a walk around the lake, where we started seeing a ton of day hikers walking, fishing, and picnicking. My mom helped me find a good swim spot and I took a nice refreshing dip.
Mom uses a pump water filter for the first time
There is a lot to be said for spending time together outside. In some ways, it's easier to be more present with the person. No phones, computers, or other electronic distractions. The day is filled with wonder and appreciation of the beauty all around. The weight of the day-to-day flurry is lifted, and space is cleared to connect and have slow, sincere, conversations.

We were only gone for 24 hours, but it was probably the most fun and meaningful time I've spent with my mom in years. I'm so thankful that she wanted to go and thought it was fun. We are already talking about another overnight for next summer.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

This Day, Nine Years Ago

Today is the anniversary of my brother's accident. When Joe was 14, he got hit by a car (while walking) and suffered a severe traumatic brain injury. He was airlifted to Harborview Medical Center where he underwent multiple surgeries, then was transferred to Children's Hospital where he spent nearly a month in a coma. A couple years back I wrote about the accident and the aftermath. He has come so far over these years, thanks to his hard work, my parents' dedication, and good doctors.
Joe at Harborview, July 2005
But today I'm thinking about that day, exactly nine years ago. In June 2005, I had just returned from five months studying abroad and traveling in Mexico. I hadn't seen Joe in nearly half a year, and he seemed dramatically taller, bigger, and older than I remembered.

I was about to leave for Alaska to work in the egg house of a cannery for a few weeks for the height of sockeye season. My last interaction with Joe was him wandering into my room and saying, "I know you haven't ridden your bike for awhile since you were in Mexico. I lubed the chain and put air in the tires in case you wanted to ride it while you're home. And I'm making quesadillas. Want one?" We ate quesadillas and the next day I left.

I flew to Naknek, Alaska, for the long days and smell of salmon roe. The egg house was far more pleasant than the actual cannery, which is incredibly loud with all the machinery. But the egg house is still a huge, cold, sterile, fluorescent-lit, damp processing facility. Let me tell you what I wore there: bandana, hairnet, long-sleeve shirt, plastic sleeves from wrist to shoulder, latex gloves, rubber bib overalls, pants, long johns, 2 pairs of socks, and insulated rubber Xtra Tuff boots.

So when I saw a woman from the office walk in wearing her clean sweater, pencil skirt, and heels, I knew something was out of the ordinary. Across the room, I could see her talking to my boss, who then pointed in my direction. They told me I was excused from work because I needed to call home immediately. I had no idea what to expect. I followed the clicking of her heels across the grounds to the office, and asked her if she knew what it was about. She shook her head,"Something about your brother."

I talked to my younger sister, sobbing into the phone as I heard words like "hit-and-run"; "15 feet before his head hit the pavement"; "severe brain swelling"; "coma"; "spleen lacerated"; "bloody and bruised brain tissue". Things were looking really bad. It was late morning, and they weren't sure if he would make it until the next day. My family was going to get a doctor's note to the airline for me to get a flight as soon as possible.

The office told me to pack my stuff, and whenever I was ready, some one could drive me the half hour to King Salmon, the tiny town with a tiny airport. I walked back to the dorms just as the lunch break started. I saw my friends, and told them I was leaving. It was so rushed, and surreal- one minute packing and salting salmon eggs; the next leaving in a flurry to travel thousands of miles to try to see my brother alive.

The van dropped me off at the airport, where I was supposed to check in at the counter before the next flight. That was still several hours away. I walked around the town in a daze, the mosquitoes relentless. I found a patch of grass and collapsed, crying so hard I could barely think.

"You okay Miss?" came a concerned voice.

I looked up to see an elderly gentleman looking down at me.

"It's just- he's- a car- my brother-" I could hardly get words out.

He nodded slowly. "I'm going to grab some coffee there," pointing across the street. "Let me buy you a hot chocolate or a coffee or something."

And so I followed this stranger into the diner. He announced he was getting fish n' chips and certainly I must be hungry too. It was true- It was mid-afternoon and I hadn't eaten since breakfast at 6am. We proceeded to share a lovely meal, sip coffee, and talk like old friends. He asked me about my family and my time in Mexico. He told me stories of fishing and the Alaska wilderness, and adventures with his wife, who he spoke very fondly of. He thanked me sincerely for keeping him company before saying goodbye. Those hours would have been miserable sitting in the crowded one-room airport shack, and I am so grateful for that man's kindness.

I made it to Seattle around midnight, as July 20th drew to a close.

Sunday, July 13, 2014

High Divide-7 Lakes Basin in the Olympics

With Friday off of work for the 4th of July, it was the perfect Thursday evening to get out of town.  I headed out with a gal from my climbing class, and one of her friends. We had never backpacked together, but considering the long email thread and shared Google doc for planning, I knew they'd make the most organized, prepared, and positive outdoor buddies I could hope for. We hopped on the Edmonds ferry, grabbed dinner, and made our way toward Port Angeles.

The plan was to hike the High Divide trail, which is a 19-mile loop in the northern Olympics. It wraps around the 7 Lakes Basin, with beautiful lakes and campsites to break up the journey. We knew it was on the early side for this trail, and that we'd be getting quite a bit of snow above 4,000 feet. We were prepared to camp in snow, and brought ice axes for the descent into the basin.
High Divide Loop (map from here)
We left Friday morning from the Sol Duc trailhead, just as the cool morning air was turning into summer heat. The first several miles were along the Sol Duc River, shaded and lush. 
We even took a dip in the river. It was so cold I could barely stand in it. I thought I liked cold water, but these ladies put me to shame. We dried off in the warm sun before starting the uphill section.
The trail climbed steadily up toward Heart Lake. A few clouds rolled in, and we started getting to patches of snow.
We made it to Heart Lake, and we just had a little way to go before getting on to the actual crest of the High Divide. At that point, it was all snow, so we took out poles and gaiters and continued up.
Looking down to Heart Lake
Heading west on the High Divide
The High Divide is beautiful. At that point, you've done all the uphill work and just get to stay high with views in all directions. It was getting cloudier and darker, but we still got fantastic peeks at Mount Olympus and the surrounding ranges.

The lakes in the basin were at various ranges of frozen. Some of the bigger ones were 70-80% melted, while small ones were still completely frozen, with the faintest ring of blue around the edge. Our destination, Lunch Lake, was about 95% frozen still. The upside to the snow was that we could make our own trail, so we decided to cut down a little early to get to the lake just as it started sprinkling.
Descending into Lunch Lake
There were 3 other parties camped there, plus rangers, so we had to tromp around the campsites for quite awhile before we found an open and snow-free area. But we did! We set up camp before the rain really started coming down. We filtered water in the pouring rain, and my spirits got a little dampened by this change in weather.
But by the time we ate dinner, the rain had stopped and the air felt much warmer. A woman wandered over to our camp and said she wanted to check the nearby pond. For what? She was a frog and salamander researcher! She found one salamander and showed it to us, it's belly a bright speckled white, almost glittering. I had no idea there were critters living in those ponds when it was still so cold. 

"Oh, and did you see the sows and cubs?" she asked brightly.  She pointed out the bears on the distant hillside that we hadn't noticed! We saw one mama with two cubs, and another with one cub. She also told us that elk usually grazed that hillside in the mornings. She was like our little dose of National Geographic before bounding off cheerfully.

I can't think of a way I would rather celebrate America than being in the backcountry. But in the absence of fireworks, BBQ's, and cheap beer, we felt we had to do something. So we sang some patriotic songs and crafted this photo.
USA!
It rained on and off through the night. We had a slow breakfast and morning coffees before heading out. It was a short but steep climb back up to the trail, as we were going straight up on snow instead of the trail switchbacks (that would probably be melted out in the next couple weeks). Back on the High Divide, we smelled the strong musk of goats and/or elk, but didn't see any. They were probably bedded down in the constant drizzle. We did see glacier lilies, and then more day hikers as we got lower down.
We stopped for lunch at Deer Lake. It was a great spot, though we got swarmed by mosquitoes, which made me appreciate our frozen, bug-free campsite.
Boardwalk at Deer Lake
One of many falls on the Sol Duc River
We made it back to the car tired and happy. We weren't in a rush to get home, so we stopped at Lake Crescent to freshen up and enjoy the serene lake side.
Relaxing at Lake Crescent
We all agreed that a big hike needs to get rounded out with a beer and burger. We stopped in Port Gamble on our way to the ferry, and found the tiny town in full 4th of July festivities mode. We stumbled upon fabulous organic burgers with homemade ketchup, and the friendly owner stopped by our table to chat. Then we made it to the ferry, and were able to catch the very next one- always a bonus coming home from the peninsula!