Friday, June 2, 2017

One of those days

June 1
I ate rare flank steak and eggs for breakfast (included with my one-per center mega-room) and packed up. Today was Wheeler Peak, the highest point on my trail (and the highest point in the state). It was going to be an alpine day, I knew.
Per my usual habit, I took the wrong road out of town, climbing a good 800 feet up the wrong mountain. I backtracked and followed a maze of dirt roads up a drainage toward Williams Lake, passing weird little houses and condo build sites along the way.
 
As soon as the road stopped and the trail began, everything was snow again. Hmm. I climbed up past the lake, and up steeply through forest. Wheeler Peak wasn't far -- just a few miles -- but it was still thousands of feet up from me.
I cleared treeline and saw steep snowfields above. Okay, on with the crampons and up I go. It was hard going, very steep and pretty darn cold. The elevation and elevation gain had me stopping every thirty teps or so. But the visual rewards were intense, as Wheeler Peak to my left was balanced by the high, snowy ridge to my right.
 
Podcasts are a very important part of my mental health when I hike. Probably my favorite is the Trail Show, which is a pretty hilarious podcast in which a bunch of long-distance hikers, friends of mine, get plastered on beer and talk about hiking. I was merrily listening to D-low talk about a trail in Peru he had hiked like ten years ago when they got to their "mailbag" segment. To my utter disbelief, my sweet Lily had sent in an on-the-dedication to me. Her letter stated that she would be on a research vessel and I would be hiking, so she wanted to use this podcast to say she loved me. It was the sweetest thing, and gave me the strength to keep plowing up the hill. P-mags, D-low, POD and Disco; Thank you! Lily: Thank you! Everyone: Listen to the Trail Show and GET ON THE TRAIL!
With fresh legs, I passed a group of young college-age men. No word of a lie, my pride loved the fact that I could blow them away. I kick-stepped my way up to the summit ridge, actually trying to stay on snow, as my crampons made it so easy to navigate. It was early, and the day was cold, so the snow was still nice and firm. Good snow.
After hitting the summit ridge, it was just a quick, breathless jaunt up to the summit proper. A group of state high point Peak naggers was there and took my picture. I took a lol at the weather that was starting to form and thought it'd be prudent to get the hell back down off the rock before any lightning storms found me. Man, lightning at elevation is terrifying!
 
The route took me further along the summit ridge, picking my way between unfortunately rotten snowfields on the eastern side of the ridge and rocky cliffs on the western. I eventually bombed off to the west and through a little basin. On the far side, I attained a little grassy ridge and spotted something moving about 100 yards away. Hey, I thought, those deer look odd.
They're not deer, I realized. They're bighorn sheep, including one really majestic ram.
 
It was a scene of great peace and dignity. I felt like I was being rewarded for being out there; I felt like I was winning. Snow, summit, bighorn, I wondered what else was going to happen today. It seemed like one of those days I have every few years in the mountains, days with so many events packed into one revolution of the earth that it stretches credulity. I had a day like that in 2011, on the CDT, when I herded elk down a valley, saw grizzly bears mating, and then almost got swept away during a river crossing. What's next?
Next, it turned out, was the thunderstorm that had been flirting with me for the better part of the day. To my relief, it hit when I was under forest cover. To my dismay, that forest cover held 100% snow cover as well. To my further dismay, the storm dumped hail on me for a full hour. Much of my afternoon was spent slogging my way through a trackless forest, hail in my face, deafening thunder and pee-your-pants lightning in the air above. 
The storm passed as I approached a pass into the next drainage. What, my goodness, what will be next?
Next was a super-steep sketchy descent into the Goose Creek drainage. The trail, which I am sure was nicely switchbacked, was hidden under a snowfield too steep for me to safely navigate. I took a few minutes to plan a route down, during which time a coyote came out of some bushes in the basin below. He looked up at me with a pretty clear "what the hell do you think you are doing?" pose and then trotted off down the drainage. Hey, Mr. Coyotr, I really don't know. At this point, I am just along for the ride.
I plunge-stepped down through some scree until I judged the snowslope to be safe enough to glissade (read: slide on my butt) down. Down in the basin, I looked for a trail and found none. Maybe there's a trail in the upper Goose Creek basin, but damned if I could find it.
The descent down the drainage was more cross-country through the snow. I was now bone-tired, and every deadfall and brushy obstacle seemed to sap another pint of my reserves. Below 10,000 feet, the snow started to clear, but I still couldn't find the trail. I'd find trail, but it would rapidly become clear that it had been abandoned, perhaps some remnant of earlier days. I eventually just roughed it out cross-country next to the creek, or even by walking down the creek itself. Heck, my feet weren't going to get any wetter.
And then, finally, a gloriously clear tread appeared. My mind released a hold of stress I hadn't even known it was carrying: I was going to make it down. The land became deeply fragrant with the smell of spring, of wet earth and fresh wood.
The trail bottomed out on the road into Red River, a little ski town. I walked into town, ate a steak, and got a room. Only 23 miles. Or, you know, a lifetime's worth of work and memories.

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