Shoe: Brooks Caldera 4
Distance: 18.3 miles
***
It’s four o’clock in the morning. My alarm wakes me. Nope, wasn’t a mistake. I did, in fact, intentionally set this alarm. Fireworks kept me up longer than I wanted and certainly weren’t conducive to a good night’s sleep. Nevertheless, here we are: 4am and no time to hit snooze.
I make a quick breakfast of eggs and English muffins as well as a cup of coffee. I was smart and packed everything I would need before I went to bed last night, so this morning, all that’s left to do is wake up.
***
Matt arrives right around 4:50am. I load my gear into the trunk of his little red Prius and hop in the passenger seat. Our most recent excursion was a two or more hour drive away. This morning’s trail run is half that at most.
The road is empty on the way to the trailhead, and the parking lot at the trailhead isn’t much busier. We slink out of the car into the brisk morning air and prep for today’s endeavor. We’re about to embark upon a stretch of the Pacific Crest Trail, hoping for twenty or more miles as an out and back on a lengthy stretch of trail between I-90 and Highway 2.
We throw on some jackets, don our packs, ensure our shoes are laced properly, and then head down the trail. We’re not aiming for an FKT or anything so we opt to warm up with about a mile of walking. The trail climbs upward throughout the first few miles so there’s no sense in burning ourselves out at the outset.
Once we feel a little looser, we allow our feet to up the cadence a bit and start jogging. The trail is technical and difficult. I can already tell the return journey is going to be a struggle. This terrain is littered with rocks and roots and on the way back it will be mostly downhill, which might sound nice—until you’re twenty miles in on a technical switchback descent with quivering quads and fatigued feet.
This is the first, but not the last time I’ll mentally note the coming return journey in apprehension.
***
It doesn’t take long before we reach an incredible view. We stop for a photo op and marvel at the sheer cliff faces set menacingly against the blue sky. The sun is already burning off the fog below us. What few clouds exist surely won’t last long at this rate.
There’s a little snow here and there far up along the sides of the surrounding mountains, looking down upon us as if portents of things to come.
The jackets must come off. It’s still early in the morning, but the sun already makes its presence felt. We stuff our jackets into our packs and carry onward and upward. The sun is warm and the air is cool and crisp, the combination of which creates a lovely juxtaposition on the skin. As we climb in altitude, I can feel that mountain air thin out. In comparison to Colorado, we’re pretty low, but it’s a stark contrast coming from sea level.
We eventually climb high enough to spot a little snow here and there. We joke about our most recent attempt at running a different route called Chinook Pass closer to Mount Rainier. We showed up at the trailhead and were met with something like nine feet of snow, forcing us to find a nearby alternative.
“If this is all the snow we get, we’ll be just fine.”
I laugh.
***
I don’t normally take many photos. And even fewer, it seems, when I’m on a run. But I haven’t been in an alpine area like this for so long I can’t resist the urge to capture a few of these stunning scenescapes for later admiration. Everything is so goddamn pretty. The beauty of it all is overwhelming.
Miles pass beneath us. Our pleasant conversation joins the birdsong and the piercing shrieks of the rock chucks—or marmots or whatever those mountain beavers are called. And then we come to the first snow covering a portion of the trail.
There are recent footprints in the snow so we test them out. Sure enough, they support our weight. The snow is pretty hard packed, and it doesn’t extend too long before giving way to the trail once more. We cross the snow and continue down the trail. Until…
…More snow. We begin to wonder how far we’ll be able to make it. We’re about six or seven miles in at this point, a far cry from the ten to thirteen miles we initially hoped to cover before turning back. The increasing repetition of snow combined with the shortening lengths of trail between threatens to put the kibosh on the feasibility of our twenty-mile dreams.
We press on, just to see if conditions improve. We would hate to turn around prematurely if the snow yields just around that next corner. But the next corner always finds us staring down more snow. Eventually, one of the snowfields we cross is almost entirely unbroken icy, slushy snow for at least a mile. And some of the snow we’ve had to cross so far has been disconcertingly steep in its slope.
***
Matt and I come to a stretch of snow that’s got to be about fifty yards or so in length. The slope boasts a devastating angle, tilting downward into a basin containing an alpine lake surrounded by a severe, rocky shore. One misstep and you’re sliding all the way down, several hundred yards, until either the rocks or the lake stops you.
There are footprints in the snow. Clearly, folks have made it across before. So we cross as well. We place our feet firmly and squarely into each and every existing footprint. If it worked for whoever made it, hopefully it works for us too.
The steepness of the slope is wildly unsettling for me. It takes everything I have to keep my wits about me, as they say. Each step brings with it visions of a fall.
At the very far edge of this snowfield, there’s a little lip we have to climb up and over before we can drop down back onto the trail briefly. As I pull myself over the jutting lip of the snow and stumble down back onto the solid ground, I realize once again that this is an out and back. We’re going to have to cross that snowfield again.
I try to put this thought out of my mind. I’ll have to confront that reality soon enough. No sense poisoning the present experience with impending, anxious dread. In the back of my mind, though, I know what awaits us in the very near future. I know the foe that will stand between us and home.
“On the way back,” I say, “I think I might try to find a better way across that lower down.”
The severity of the slope seems to alleviate somewhat down the embankment. Plus, there are a few rocks and a little foliage that might offer more handholds.
***
From here, the trail returns for a decent stretch. We resume running along the side of this ridge. I focus on the unsteady rocks beneath my feet, vigilant for any obstructions that might seek my demise, and as I study the trail before me, I can see the vistas in my periphery. The immediacy of the trail and the remoteness of the lake below induce something like vertigo. It’s surreal.
The trail gives way once again to snowfields and, once again, we cross, always keeping our eyes on that greener grass just around the bend. But eventually, we have to call it.
We’re at the top of a peak and the trail turns to a switchback winding its way back and forth directly beneath an expansive snowfield extending a hell of a long way down. What this means is that, if we continue, the only trail we’ll get for the entire descent into the basin are the hairpin corners of the switchback. Everything else will be snow.
We’re just over eight and a half miles in at this point. Seventeen or so miles isn’t a terrible day, even if it’s not the twenty or more we’d originally planned for. Sometimes you just have to roll with the punches. And the snow is throwing some solid left and right hooks.
Matt and I turn around. Instead of navigating across the snow this time, though, we go up and over the spine of the ridge where there are some animal paths that are much clearer than the footprints we’ve been following for miles now. Even though this is far steeper, it’s still much more efficient and less taxing than trying to return the way we came. The snow up here, like most snow, is incredibly slippery.
***
As the two of us hike through the snow and run on the trail, one thought keeps returning to me.
“How far before the really bad snowfield?” I wonder to myself. “How far is my nightmare from me?”
Because of the slow going across these snowfields and technical trails, it is quite a while before we arrive at my reckoning. I knew it was coming, but I am unprepared all the same. I look lower down to the path I thought seemed more promising only to realize it’s probably not any better.
A rocky ledge extending up toward the peak treacherously offers up another alternative, but even though there’s solid ground underfoot for a significant way up, that’s no guarantee the snow will be any less expansive, or easier, or safer up there.
After some hemming—after some hawing—both Matt and I ultimately come to the conclusion that there’s no way to go but through. He goes first. Compared to how I feel, he looks like a goddamn mountain goat. I watch him lean into the hill and take deliberate care with each step.
With rising anxiety, I approach the raised lip of the snowpack. I look out at the footprints, reminding myself that their existence proves people can and have crossed this before. I am one of them.
And yet, the return feels daunting, more daunting than before. The fact that I’ve done it before offers no boost in confidence. But there’s no other option. Not unless I plan on sleeping out here tonight. The short shorts I’m wearing might not keep me the warmest once that sun goes down.
I grab a long-ish pointy rock and pull myself onto the snow. I dig my feet into the footprints, stab the side of the snowy slope with the rock. I figure, if I do slip, this rock might offer me a singular chance at slowing my descent enough to find solid footing again. In reality, it probably offers nothing more than moral support.
***
I clamor across the slushy snowfield in slow motion for a brief eternity. I’m practically hugging the side of the mountain, acutely aware of gravity’s hegemony over all things. On the way out, my sense of balance was far superior. Now, my equilibrium is all off and I find it very difficult to remain coordinated.
With gloved fingers clawing at the snow, I make my way across. I feel my right leg and right arm trembling with effort and adrenaline. Those last dozen yards are torture. I feel weaker with every step. The slope feels steeper with each footprint I drive my foot into. I’m afraid my mental resolve will give out and I’ll panic.
My breathing comes heavier. Anxiety is mounting. I look over at Matt who is safely back on the rocky trail. I look back at those last few footprints between me and the solid ground. I look literally anywhere except down.
Five footprints between me and the snow’s edge.
Four footprints.
Three.
Two.
I throw myself onto the rocky trail and let out nervous laughter—or something very nearly resembling laughter, at least. That was the worst of it. There are more dicey snowfields remaining, but that was chief among them. And that means the worst is over.
***
The rest of the way passes much more quickly than did everything leading up to the second passage through the worst of the snowfields. And once all the snow is behind us, we’re able to run again. In spite of almost turning several ankles, Matt and I navigate our way down the mountains and back to the parking lot.
I’m so relieved to be done I don’t mind the stuffy parking lot air baked by several hours of direct sunlight upon the asphalt.
I can’t say I’m eager to have an adventure like this again any time soon. Oh, I fully intend to run this trail again, but I think I’ll wait until the snow and I aren’t sharing the trails.