Hiking the PCT Section J
Steven’s Pass to snoqualmie pass
72 miles, 4 days, 6 hours of sleep
In 2021, I finally got into backpacking. Something about carrying everything I needed to survive all on my back brought me a sense of freedom. Plus, walking for hours out in nature was a great substitute for the unhealthy distance running I used to do. After my first overnight trip, my coworker shared his great story of section hiking from Stevens to Snoqualmie as a kid. It was so cool! What if I could do that?
By July, I was spending full days, 8-12 hours of hiking on any saturday.
My what-if went from a maybe to a goal. I went all in on hiking this 72mile stretch of nature the week before my thigh lift surgery. A triumphant celebration of my body before losing the use of my legs for a while. Adventures are go! I began hiking every weekend, racking up hours and hours of time with my backpack on. I acquired gear, began dehydrating meats to make own food, and dreamed of the magic of the trail while I walked slowly up and down mountains.
Summer was upon us, and it was almost time. At 43 pounds, my backpack was far from ultralight, but with 14 pounds of food and plenty of things to keep me alive, I didn’t feel like I was packing in excess. It was nothing short of magic that it all fit into a pack, and was rather easy to carry. I had done my research, my physical training, and said my goodbyes to the world.
DAY ONE: THE SEPARATION
So full of hope.
After a meager 5 hours of sleep, I woke at 4:55 and tossed my pack into my wife’s car and we headed north. The sunrise was gorgeous, and I tried to nod off on the drive. We arrived promptly at an eerily silent Steven’s Pass at 7 am. I ran up the trail from the parking lot, confirming the location of the trailhead signpost standing majestically. I excitedly ran back to car and donned my pack, and gave myself a quick bugspray once-over, before leading my wife up the hill to wish me off. Everything was so quiet and empty, a winter town gone dormant. I posed for some pictures, then turned and walked onto the trail.
I knew I was on the right trail: a lot of Altra prints, just like mine.
It felt almost sacred to be on the Pacific Crest Trail. As I carved up the lush green mountains, I paused to look back at the pass, bathed in morning sunrise. I passed deserted ski lifts and marveled at the dormant ski-time infrastructure as I meandered up the hill. Within 30 minutes I met a family on the last mile of their northbound section hike, and they were in great spirits. I stopped to chat, pose for pictures, and quiz them about various upcoming trials ahead. They also reminded me to put on my bug hat, and as I said goodbye and headed back up the trail toward the top of the first ridge, I was grateful to have it. There was a constant high pitched hum all around me. The ambient sound of my hike was silence, punctuated by mosquitos, near constantly hovering around my ears. I crested the top of the ridge, marveling at the mountains ahead, and sent my last message before losing cell service for a few days. I headed down the slope.
The top of the first hill. What lay ahead was unknown, but a sense of magic and wonder rose inside of me, despite the constant harassment by bugs.
A few minutes down the first descent I ran into an older man, who passed me, then turned to speak. Trail name of Bible, he noted that he completed his first thru-hike of the PCT at age 67, and assured me that I’d be fine. He asked my trail name, and I knew: Golden Bear. As I descended the slope and began to adjust to the risings and fallings of the landscape, I was introduced to some of the staples of the Alpine Lake Wilderness. I saw beautiful mountains, dense green ground cover, talus fields, and lakes! All the while being constantly hounded by mosquitos. The first lakes I saw were still water, buzzing with a white-noise of millions of bugs just waiting for a delicious man like me. A northbound hiker asked how I was as he passed, and I said “itchy” and he just laughed as he strode away, not wearing any bug gear. Resigned to my fate, I continued on, through glamorous wilderness and the magnificent splendor of Hope and Mig lakes, picturesque with a several campers and a solitary fly-fisherman.
Approaching Hope lake, I heard guitar strumming, and ran into some rowdy boys on their way to Trap lake. “Halfway there!” one exclaimed, panting and eating a pepperoni stick. This part of the trail was still accessible by forest roads, and well within day hiker territory. I kept moving, gaining elevation and gaining fatigue. Realizing that a 2d map is a poor indicator of elevation, my ‘campsite at trap lake’ ended up being a precarious perch high above the lake. It was around 5 pm, and still harassed by bugs, I set up my hammock, attempted some yoga, and zipped up to try and rest. By this point, it wasn’t fun anymore. I was supremely exhausted, hiding from mosquitos in an insulated hammock, overheated, and the sun wasn’t going to set for several hours more. 10 hours away from civilization, I wanted to quit. At peak discomfort, I couldn’t imagine going through a week of this. As I sat with the feeling, something inside of me shifted. A rage began to manifest inside of me, and I resolved to be done with this as soon as possible. I packed up my gear and set off once more, cursing at the trail, the bugs, myself, and running purely on rage and spite.
I ran down the trail, fueled entirely by bitter fumes of utter disdain for the trail. You want me to quit, Section J? I aint quitting SHIT. Turns out the drill instructor voice inside of me that helped me do things like run marathon distances and religiously structure my physical routines was still very much alive and well. I was maudlin, alternating from rage to pure gratitude as I amped myself up with positive affirmations and compliments for being so awesome. As I lost the daylight, I settled on Glacier lake as my camp for the night. Mostly bug free, I just unfurled my sleeping pad, put on my bug clothes, and donned by headphones to try to drift off with a nice sleep meditation. I was still awake an hour later when it ended, and automatically played the next file on my phone, which was my ringtone, which startled me entirely back to reality. Now fully dark, I decided it was cold enough to put up my hammock, and I settled into it uncomfortably to wait out the night.
Day 1, from Steven’s pass to Trap lake, then onward to Glacier lake by nightfall.
DAY 2: THE DESCENT
I opened my eyes at roughly 5 am. Hardly rested, I gathered my things and tiptoed up out of Glacier lake basin, careful not to wake the other campers in their tent nearby. I walked about 15 minutes before stopping at a stream to fill up on water and finish the last of day 1’s food for breakfast. I accidentally dropped my water bladder, and had to refill the entire thing while being harassed by flies. Not a good start. I slowly gained elevation as I approached Pieper Pass, and the entirety of Glacier lake revealed itself as I climbed above the treeline. Sunrise briefly kissed the tops of the mountains, but for the most part the day was blissfully cloudy and cool. I paused on a switchback for a proper meal, breaking into day 2 food bag and delicious chocolate goodies. The combination of liver, cocoa butter, and blueberries enlivened my tastebuds and my legs. I revelled in the beauty of the mountain pass as I crested the top and descended once more.
As I came down into a valley, I came across some folks with face masks on. Arriving at Deception lake, a large group of campers meandered about, covered head to toe. They looked like astronauts. I didn’t think too much of it, and passed by, heading to a river to stop for water. I was instantly swarmed by mosquitos. They went up my shorts, in my underwear, and I was itching and burning everywhere. I poured the river water into my bladder, popped two potable water tablets in there and ran, cursing the bugs and feeling supremely uncomfortable. As I moved on and my bites started to cool down, I slowed my pace and noticed the landscape, signs of epic devastation lingered in the quiet forest. I sipped my chemically-cleaned water and was grateful that I was alive despite the itch. A signpost snapped me from my daydreaming and pointed out a hazard ford ahead. THE ford, as reference in all my preparation and research. How exciting! Within a mile, I broke out into a beautiful valley, rock hopped across a river, and celebrated my first river crossing! I ascended the other side of the valley…and was finally greeted with the real crossing. Large boulders and jagged rocks were buffeted by swift whitewater rapids, and several folks sat resting on either side. I approached a couple with their dog who had just crossed, and they were happy to show me my options, either thigh deep across the swiftest part, or farther down stream where it was more shallow. I thanked them and considered my next move. Wet rocks meant no rock hopping, not with 40 pounds of backpack on. I stepped into the water at the swiftest deepest point and slowly trudged forward. Halfway across, I couldn’t pick up my foot without it shooting downstream, so I turned back. I decided to head downstream to the shallower crossing, where I used some downed logs as a brace and slowly went across. I celebrated by drinking some of the river water, then hiked up the steep slope back onto the trail, triumphant.
The dangerous river to be forded.
Motivated by my successful crossing, I plodded on with soggy shoes up the side of Cathedral pass. I passed through the site of a particularly gnarly avalanche, trees strewn about a wide swath of devastation, obscuring the trail and requiring a lot of navigating. Fortunately, I ran into a WTA work crew, volunteers armed with axes and saws, working through the logs one by one. I filled up my water, ate some food, and thanked them for being so awesome, as they chopped up a log, and laid it over a river for me to cross over. I worked my way around Cathedral rock while Deep lake loomed large in the valley below, with the constant roar of waterfalls echoing off the pass. When I got to the lake, its beautiful drew me in. The gently lapping waves and green meadow begged me to stay and camp. I arrived at the side of the lake to see several tents already in place. I was greeted by some friendly folks, and I set up next to the lake. A thru-hiking father joined by his kids, they ate dinner while I sat in silence, enjoying the company. I soaked in the lake before retiring to my hammock as the wind ceased and the bugs returned. A family of deer grazed nearby, and I settled in to try and get some rest.
Day 2: from Glacier lake, across a river ford, and camping at Deep lake.
DAY 3: THE ORDEAL
As I lay in my hammock, still warm as the sun went down, it began to gently rain. The light drops through the netting was cool and nice, and I finally began to cool down a bit. I began to nod off…..and then it really started to come down. I closed the windows, and listened to the rain patter hard on the hammock. It began to drip gently onto my legs. The tent wasn’t keeping the rain out. Between the wet and the loud rain, I realized that I wasn’t sleeping tonight. I checked my watch. 3:15 am. My only option was to keep moving. I opened the hammock door, feeling the cool breeze flood in and seeing my warm dragon breath mist around me in the light of my headlamp. The rain was coming down hard, but I had the foresight to stash my pack underneath a copse of trees, rainfly on. It was still dusty, and I retrieved my poncho and stashed my wet shelter inside. I started walking by headlamp, trusting the trail. The sight of a PCT trail marker filled me with joy, and I pushed on until morning light, feeling so tired. I put on my bug hat and leaned against my pack, starting awake after 30 minutes, refreshed. I moved through a damp forest in the light rain, chasing a deer down the trail, and avoiding more downed trees. What had started as mist revealed itself to be smog, and I was dismayed to find the wind had shifted the distant wildfire smoke onto my surroundings. The surrounding mountains became spooky in the haze as I climbed Waptus pass.
In the shadow of Escondido point, I stopped to dip my feet in Cooper river. Flowing directly from a snowdrift, the water was amazing and cold. It was fascinating to see how nature shaped the landscape, creating meandering rivers, streams, and pooling into lakes. As I crested the mountain the trees stood like toothpicks, barren from past fires. Blackened wood and bleached forests were interspersed with fresh growth, and it felt like I was at the top of the world. It was quiet, the Lemah mountains and Chimney Rock towered across the valley, covered in snow at over 7000 feet. The flat meadows soon began to turn to switchbacks as I came down the other side of the pass. Several hours of descending put me into a trance, forgoing breaks and running downhill on ruined feet. After hours of descent, I finally reached the bottom, and dipped my feet in a stream while eating a bunch of my food. It was 6 pm, and Spectacle lake was another 5 miles away. Newly refreshed with cooled feet and lots of food in my belly, I took off towards the Lemah Meadow, singing euphoric spontaneous love songs. As I entered the burn zone, things became somber, as it was almost like a tree graveyard. My energy waned as I lost daylight, and I eyed each tree I passed with hammock-vision. I decided to make for Delate creek, and slowly carved up several more switchbacks into the forest. A deer greeted me at the camping area, and I moved on toward the roaring creek. I was met with a superb waterfall next to a bridge, and as the last of the daylight left, I took a shower in the waterfall, took some melatonin, and settled naked into my hammock.
Behold, an outdoor shower.
Day 3: 23 miles from Deep Lake, Past Waptus Lake to Delate Creek.
DAY 4: THE RETURN
I woke up shivering, and happy to actually be cold for the first time in days. I retrieved my wet sleeping bag, and realized with joy that a damp bag is still a warm bag. I actually got a few hours of sleep, only to wake at 2:45 to scratch all of my bug bites. I figured this was as good as it was going to get, so I got up, bathed in the waterfall again, and set out with enthusiasm. I passed Spectacle lake, and watched the sun come up in the smog. Bugs were awful as morning blossomed, but with bug pants and bug hat I hardly cared. I sat down for another trail nap after my last caffeine tablet did literally nothing to my energy level. Words do very little to describe this day and the scenery. I spent hours skirting the sides of mountains, moving toward epic landmarks only to look back on where I had been, a tiny line on the side of a rocky hill. The sheer scale was intense, and so was the hot summer sun, beating down every step of the way. There was no water for hours, but I was all business, so close to the finish line.
I toiled on the ridgeline for hours, resorting to intermittent podcasts to keep my mind focused while I traversed the ridgelines. The views kept me excited as I pushed on in the smoggy heat, clad in bug pants and my sun shirt. As I brushed the top of the ridge, I gained cell service, and received a voice message from my wife. I listened in tears as she cheered me on, and the words gave me strength to run down the ridge. I passed another couple, and was excited to leave them with ‘remember, you can do anything.’
After hours of mountain slopes, I finally reached water, in the form of a shallow, bug-happy tarn between Chikamin and Huckleberry Mountain. I filled up my water, dunked my feet, and decided to opt for potable water tablets, ensuring clean and well flavored water very soon. I left the rocky hillsides behind as I stepped onto Huckleberry Mountain, disappointed in the lack of actual berries but uplifted by the beautiful vegetation. I rounded Alaska and Joe lakes, marveling at my progress as looked back from Alaska Mountain. As I climbed, a loud roar began to percolate through the valley. Avalanche? As it got louder and louder I turned to see an F/A 18 Hornet zoom by Chikamin Ridge, followed by the rumble of sonic boom. With several hours ahead of me, I reached ridge lake, once again happy to find water after lots of exposed climbs. As my water filled, two shirtless hikers arrived at the lake, just as elated as I was. I turned and headed back up the trail as they jumped into the lake.
As I approached Kendall Peak, I could see, mere miles across the valley, the view of Kendall Knob that had been my stopping point on a training hike mere weeks earlier. That would mean only 6 miles to go! Bursting with hope, I used my intermittent cell service to let my family know I was close, and ascended toward the Kendall Katwalk.
From the Katwalk, I put in my headphones and turned on some music, ready to run down the last 6 miles. My feet were squished to oblivion and I was hungry, but I wanted to be finished with this. I dreamed of LaCroix, which would taste like nectar of the gods. The scenery flew by as I descended toward Snoqualmie Pass, and in the last 2 miles, I was rejoined by the rowdy shirtless lads from Ridge Lake. Despite going nearly twice my pace, I fell into step behind them, the whacky conversation drawing all attention away from stiff ankles and sore feet. They were on their way to Mexico from the Canadian border, and I was soon feeling almost like one of them, complaining about all manner of things and looking forward to the trailhead. I reached the parking lot at 6:16 pm. 4 days and 11 hours after starting at Steven’s Pass. I said my goodbyes to my comrades as they searched for a place to sleep for the night, and I was whisked away in an air conditioned van by my Father to familiar surroundings and copious ice cream.
And just like that, I was done.
After 4 days in the Alpine Lakes Wilderness, I took my pulverized feet home and returned to civilization. Roads were strange. Where were all the trees? Ice cream was amazing. Is this real life? Too much to think about, too many responsibilities. Easier on the trail.
I hope I never have to do this again. But really, I can’t wait to be back out there, where things are simpler.