Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you waiting at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
Christina Georgina Rossetti, Uphill
I ventured into Gothic Basin today, an impressive glacier carved wilderness of the Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest. It lies near what was once a mining area.
The way to the basin begins on the old, fenced-off road into the ghost town of Monte Cristo. This bit of trail is littered with signs warning of extreme danger, proceed at your own risk, hazardous materials such as aresenic in the soil, balrogs, and other such frivolities. I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about: the trail was wide, level, and well-maintained.
About 1.5 miles down the road, there used to be a bridge crossing over the Sauk River, but, some time ago, the river apparently found itself unable to suffer such indignities and washed the bridge away. At this point, my path branched off and began to climb its way to the basin along trail and old mining paths. The total elevation gain along this section is about 3,000 feet spread out over a good 4 miles or so, making it a steady, but leisurely climb – just enough to warm one’s self up on a crisp Autumn day.
There are a number of small waterfalls that deposit their loads on the west side of the trail, allowing to the water to trickle across the path and make its way down to join the river. Earlier in the year I imagine that these crossings could be tricky, but the headwaters had frozen up by now, leaving these mostly dry. I’ve heard that one of these such falls has been wittingly dubbed “King Kong’s Showerbath,” though I saw nothing worthy of the name.
Some of the crossings higher up had not dried completely, but instead froze while crossing the trail, leaving ice covered rocks in my way. These rocks required some scrambling up, over and around, which was made interesting by the slippery ice. (I reminded myself that last Saturday’s body recovery had occurred only 20 miles east of here.)
Near the top, I stopped to munch on some granola, raisins, and dried banana slices. I did not don any further clothing upon stopping, however, and my break was thus cut short by the chill and the desire to warm up again. After resuming my walk, I pushed on over bare rock and soon thereafter found myself at a small tarn that marked the entrance to Gothic Basin.
The basin is one of the more spectacular places that I have yet found myself in. In character it bears a striking resemblance to a Gothic cathedral, but larger and grander in scope, being carved out of the mountains over centuries by the minute movements of glaciers. A temple of rock.
My awe was quickly overtaken by another sensation: cold. The wind was strong up here, cutting through my clothing with ease. With windchill, the temperature hovered around 20 degrees Fahrenheit – a stark contrast even to the trailhead only 3,000 feet below, which had felt more like 45-50F. I took off my pack and put on two more light layers of wool. It was still cold. The lowlands have maintained themselves around 60F thus far which has not yet given me the opportunity to acclimatize to these lower temperatures. I also found that I had neglected to bring any gloves. No matter. The small tarn was partially frozen over and I wanted to make my way another half mile further across the rock to Foggy Lake to see how it was faring.
Foggy Lake proved to be moving, though I can’t imagine that it will resist the ice much longer.
Standing by the cold water made me think of the packet of kukicha that I had in my pack. I had packed it, along with my old Vargo Triad XE stove, Trail Designs windscreen, and Snow Peak 700 mug. The package is not as efficient or versatile a stove as my Trail Designs Ti-Tri stove, but packs down much smaller. I often bring it on day hikes.
It was too cold for the denatured alcohol to light with a spark, so I used one of the matches from my EDC. Even with the screen around it, the wind blew the stove out once. I relit it and used my pack as a windbreak. As the tea brewed, I jumped around in place, trying to keep warm.
Soon I noticed blood on one of my finger tips: the skin had cracked from the dryness and was oozing a little bit. I tried to apply a bandage but it refused to stick. Must have something to do with the cold, I figured, and sliced off a piece of duct tape from the bit I have rolled around my Klean Kanteen. That held the bandage in place just fine.
After the tea had steeped, I was cold enough to decide to pack up the stove and start making my way back down, drinking the tea as I went. With mug in one hand and a trekking pole in the other, I made my way back to the tarn, facing the icy south wind. Having downed the warm tea in a remarkably quick fashion, I decided to stop so that I could put the mug away and thus have one free hand to stick in my pocket to warm. I set down the pack and mug, digging around inside the pack for the small garbage bag that I carry, so that I could pack out the teabag. It was a bit tricky, not being able to feel anything due to numb fingers. In a minute, I found the garbage bag and opened it, then reached for the tea bag that was still sitting inside the mug. It had already begun to freeze to the titanium. I broke it free, tossed it in the garbage bag, and put bag and mug in the pack. I decided that things were starting to get a bit serious when I found that I had a lot of trouble closing the zippers on my pack. After donning the pack, I could stick one hand in my pocket to warm, but the other had to stay exposed to hold the trekking pole (which I needed even more on the descent than the ascent). Using the spare Buff I had in one of my pockets, I fashioned a mitten-like covering for the exposed hand which suited to block the wind. It really wasn’t that cold out: as soon as the fingers on both hands were out of the wind, they began to rewarm.
With that addressed, I continued the descent, making my way over scoured rock and through whispering trees back to the trailhead. (I slipped once on one of those ice covered rocks near the top, coming a little too close to the side of the mountain, but arrested myself and recovered.) The ascent took 3 hours and the descent 2.5.
Gothic Basin certainly warrants further explorations. Visually, it is one of the most stunning areas of the Cascades. I could easily spending a week just within the small area.
I have often thought about what I would do out here if I were stricken with a serious illness, if I broke a leg, cut myself badly or had an attack of appendicitis. Almost as quickly as the thought came, I dismissed it. Why worry about something that isn't? Worrying about something that might happen is not a healthy pastime. A man's a fool to live his life under a shadow like that. Maybe that's how an ulcer begins.
- Richard Proenneke, One Man's Wilderness
How does one hate a country, or love one? ...I lack the trick of it. I know people, I know towns, farms, hills and rivers and rocks, I know how the sun at sunset in autumn falls on the side of a certain plowland in the hills, but what is the sense of giving a boundary to all that, of giving it a name and ceasing to love where the name ceases to apply? What is love of one's country; is it hate of one's uncountry? Then it's not a good thing. Is it simply self-love? That's a good thing, but one mustn't make a virtue of it, or a profession... Insofar as I love life, I love the hills of the Domain of Estre but that sort of love does not have a boundary-line of hate. And beyond that, I am ignorant, I hope.
Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness
I was given the sandals a few years ago and always toss them in my pack when traveling in warmer climates. They’re light enough to not weight down the pack, and function as excellent camp shoes at the end of the day. I’ve never done any serious hiking with them though, and I wanted to see how capable they (and I) were.
I ended up doing a 15 mile hike. Towards the end, the balls of both my feet felt a little sore. They feel as if they’re developing a new callus (good thing) rather than a blister (bad thing).
I think it’s a healthy habit to do a hike every now and again with minimal-to-no foot support (such as barefoot, or with sandals similar to these). We all know that shoes are supposed to be bad things. If you’re the type who wears 6” or taller boots everyday, it’s especially important. Combat boots provide so much support for the foot and ankle that the muscles and tendons don’t have to do any work. They waste away. Walking with less supportive footwear will allow your feet to develop to a more healthful level.
For myself, I was surprised to find that the muscles in my lower back seemed to get the greatest workout. I usually have very bad posture, but walking with the sandals, for some reason, forced me to stand straighter than usual.
I decided to bring the Kifaru E&E instead of my normal EDC pack to cut down on weight. Here’s what I carried in it:
Joby Gorillapod
TAD Gear BC-8 pouch
Canon Powershot SD1000
Klean Kanteen (40 oz)
Possibles pouch
Challah (1/2 loaf)
Grimloc Carabiner (2x)
Bushcraft Northwest BCNW-O1 knife
Filson Tin Cloth Packer Hat
Minimalist Self-Aid kit
Buff
The Wilderness Tactical Halfway-Decent Glasses Case
...most of my townsmen would fain walk sometimes, as I do, but they cannot. No wealth can buy the requisite leisure, freedom, and independence, which are the capital in this profession. It comes only by the grace of God. It requires a direct dispensation from heaven to become a walker. You must be born into the family of the Walkers. Ambulator nascitur, non fit. Some of my townsmen, it is true, can remember, and have described to me some walks which they took ten years ago, in which they were so blessed as to lose themselves for half an hour in the woods, but I know very well that they have confined themselves to the highway ever since, whatever pretensions they may make to belong to this select class. No doubt, they were elevated for a moment as by the reminiscence of a previous state of existence, when even they were foresters and outlaws.
Henry David Thoreau
To the multitude, whether city or country bred, the bare idea of faring alone in the wilds for days or weeks at a time is eerie and fantastic: it makes their flesh creep. He who does so is certainly an eccentric, probably a misanthrope, possible a fugitive from justice, or, likely enough, some moonstruck fellow whom the authorities would do well to follow up and watch.
But many a seasoned woodsman can avow that some of the most satisfying, if not the happiest, periods of his life have been spent far out of sight and suggestion of his fellow men.
... By yourself you can sit motionless and mutely watchful, but where two are side by side it is neither polite nor endurable to pass an hour without saying a word. Lonesome? Nay indeed. Whoever has an eye for Nature is never less alone than when he is by himself.
...Solitude has its finer side. The saints of old, when seeking to cleanse themselves from taint of worldliness get closer to the source of prophecy, went singly into the desert and bided there alone. So now our lone adventurer, unsaintly as he may have been among men, experiences an exaltation, finds healing and encouragement in wilderness life.
When twilight falls, and shadows merge in the darkness, the single-handed camper muses before the fire that comforts his bivouac and listens to the low, sweet voices of the night, which never are heard in full harmony save by those who sit silent and alone.
- Horace Kephart, Camping and Woodcraft
When you have worn out your shoes, the strength of the shoe leather has passed into the fiber of your body. I measure your health by the number of shoes and hats and clothes you have worn out.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
Last February I began a training ritual in preparation for my anticipated journey to Spain. Every weekend that I could, up to the very time of my departure, I would load up my Kifaru ZXR with the heaviest books I owned till it reached something in the range of 70-80 lbs, then head out the door and hike 15-20 miles. In reality, this is far more weight than I usually carry while traveling and I tend not to walk much more than 15 miles a day. But by pushing my body and mind further than where I actually require it to go, the pleasure, serenity, and ease of travel is heightened.
I find that no amount of running, biking, or light-weight day hiking adequately prepares the body for the weight of the ruck and life on The Road. So, this year, I’m continuing the training. Yesterday was day one. I hadn’t walked under my heavy rucksack for a couple of months, so I started out with something probably closer to 50 lbs and did a 15 mile trip that lacked much elevation change.
It felt good to dust off the rucksack and move around some. At the end of the day, I could feel the strain in my gluteal muscles. Today I’m only a little bit sore. The exercise works and I’m glad of my starting weight and mileage.
In the coming weeks, I’ll increase the weight and mileage until I reach stability. At that point, I’ll keep things interesting by using my GPS to clock my speed and see what I can do about cutting down on time.
I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day at least -- and it is commonly more than that -- sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from all worldly engagements. You may safely say, A penny for your thoughts, or a thousand pounds. When sometimes I am reminded that the mechanics and shopkeepers stay in their shops not only all the forenoon, but all the afternoon too, sitting with crossed legs, so many of them -- as if the legs were made to sit upon, and not to stand or walk upon -- I think that they deserve some credit for not having all committed suicide long ago.
Henry David Thoreau
Thousands of years ago, the work that people did had been broken down into jobs that were the same every day, in organizations where people were interchangeable parts. All of the story had been bled out of their lives. That was how it had to be; it was how you got a productive economy. But it would be easy to see a will at work behind this: not exactly an evil will, but a selfish will. The people who'd made the system thus were jealous, not of money and not of power but of story. If their employees came home at day's end with interesting stories to tell, it meant that something had gone wrong: a blackout, a strike, a spree killing. The Powers That Be would not suffer others to be in stories of their own unless they were fake stories that had been made up to motivate them. People who couldn't live without story had been driven into the concents or into jobs like Yul's. All other had to look somewhere outside of work for a feeling that they were part of a story, which I guessed was why Sæculars were so concerned with sports, and with religion. How else could you see yourself as part of an adventure? Something with a beginning, middle, and end in which you played a significant part?
Neal Stephenson, Anathem
