Savoring the Warmth

It is not life that causes suffering, but our expectations that life should be the way we want.

Kodo Sawaki

I have returned recently from a backpacking trip that will unfortunately be added to my list of really bad trips. It is a reminder that there is much about hiking that we do not control, such as the weather. There are also things that we do control, such as the gear we carry with us.

This trip in the Goat Rocks Wilderness is one I have been pondering for a very long time. I have twice hiked that section of the Pacific Crest Trail, noted for its very rugged terrain, breathtaking vistas of Mt. Rainier, as well as a precarious trek along the Knife’s Edge. It is also noted for its extremes of weather: blizzards in August, high winds, bitter cold. Many year ago a fifteen year old girl died of hypothermia while on an August hike with a church group (See Remembering Dana’s Shelter, 4/11/21).

Nevertheless I have hiked that section of the Pacific Crest Trail twice, the rugged terrain calling to me. On both occasions I have looked west across the canyon at Goat Lake, a small tarn that is often frozen in early summer but glistens teal green when it is not. “I want to go there someday,” I said to myself both times. This was my chance to go there.

I departed from the Berry Patch Trailhead under cloudy skies and cool temperatures, but I was optimistic that the weather would improve, which is what the forecast suggested. I knew from studying the map and reading a trail description that the route would be steep, and I was not disappointed.

Over the years as an aging hiker I have learned that I can accomplish such strenuous climbs by hiking shorter days and keeping my pack weight down. I made it to Jordan Basin, just a three-and-a-half mile hike, and was glad to take off my pack and rest my back and shoulders after the strenuous climb. I was rewarded by a magnificent view from my campsite to the southwest, where layer upon layer of ridges culminated in the volcanic outline of Mt. St, Helens, looking like a silk screen painting in muted blues and grays (photo above). Mt. St. Helens is the hazy outline on the left of the photo. The light was perfect. The moment was perfect. I was glad that I had made the arduous hike and was looking forward to spending a few days in this magnificent and rugged wilderness.

After setting up my tent I was looking forward to a hot meal. The wind had come up, and it was getting colder. I began to extract gear from my backpack and found my stove but to my utter distress no fuel. Of course I looked in every hidden pocket, but it became quickly apparent for reasons that now seem incomprehensible that I had forgotten to pack fuel canisters.

I have occasionally forgotten items on past trips but never anything so important as fuel for my stove. Usually in the summertime I keep everything I need in my pack so that it will be ready to go whenever I want. . .just add food. For this trip I had done some rearranging in an attempt to lighten my pack weight, and somehow the fuel got left behind in the process. I could not even enjoy my usual hot cup of tea. This trip had taken an ominous turn.

I thought long and hard about my options. Many thru hikers do not even carry a stove in order to save on pack weight. They survive on Gummy Bears and peanuts. Certainly I had the usual lunch and snack food along, but missing out on hot meals in the morning and evening did not fill me with enthusiasm. A return trip to the trailhead was an option, but I was only a mile-and-a-half from Goat Lake, a place that had been calling to me for many years. I would do what I always do and what backpacking has taught me to do, make the best of a bad situation.

I soaked my freeze-dried spaghetti in cold water, hoping that by soaking it longer than usual, the noodles would soften. They did not. I ate cold spaghetti that night with runny tomato sauce and crunchy noodles. I do not recommend it. In fact, I would consider hunger to be a reasonable alternative.

I was glad to climb into my sleeping bag that night as the wind started to blow. I at least had the warmth of goose down surrounding me. Sometime during the night the wind picked up and started to howl. I slept poorly, pondering what it would be like to climb out of my sleeping bag on a cold morning and not have the satisfaction of hot oatmeal and a cup of tea.

About daylight the rain started to fall, or so I thought. But when I opened the tent flap just enough to check out the situation I saw that it was sleet, not rain, that was plummeting my tent. The ground was covered with the white pellets. The sleet did not stop and the wind was blowing hard. My options were becoming increasingly limited. Had I fuel for my stove I would have done what I always do in inclement weather, hunker down in my tent for the day and enjoy a pot of tea and a good book while I listen to the wind blow.

I waited until the sleet stopped, then climbed out to a world dotted with white pellets of ice. The clouds were dark and completely obscured the view I had enjoyed the previous night. I did not have access to a weather forecast, but the sky looked as though the storm was here to stay.

I spent some time pondering my options. I wanted very much to compete the trip. I thought about limiting my food intake to lunch only, but that would not provide sufficient energy to make my way in this challenging terrain. I thought about another meal of crunchy noodles and cold runny broth. That was what forced my change of mind. I began to pack up my gear to return to the trailhead and end my trip after just one night on the trail.

About the time I was packed up and ready to leave camp, the precipitation resumed, the sky opened up and began pelting me with hail stones. It was exactly what I needed to feel certain about my decision. I headed down the trail. The hail continued intermittently. I made good time, so eager was I to get into my RAV4 and turn on the heat. When I arrived I sat in my car and blasted the defroster while I ate my lunch, then headed down the dirt road and onto the highway towards my daughter’s home.

I texted my daughter Leah to let her know I was on my way. When I arrived she had not yet returned home from work, but Bill had turned on the gas fireplace. “I thought you might want to warm up,” he said. My grandson was there, home from the Marines. I wrapped an afghan over my lap, savoring every precious moment of warmth with these people I love. It was even better than a cup of hot tea in my tent.

After Leah arrived home Bill prepared a dinner of fried rice on an outdoor skillet. The aroma of soy and garlic and ginger was enticing. I sat at the table with my family, thinking about how fortunate I was to be safe and warm on that evening when I might instead have been eating crunchy noodles for dinner. That was the best part. The rice was steaming and hot, nothing crunchy about it. For once I was glad I had left that cold wild place.