The Resurrection Pass Journals, Chapter 10

He who limps is still walking.

--Stanislaw J. Lec

Days Three and Four

 The Journey Ends

This is the face of a happy dog (below).  This is CooBear, and CooBear is doing something I wanted to do so I could have a happy look on my face, too.

More about CooBear and his happy face later.  First, we need to return to my camping site five miles from the end of Devil’s Creek trail.

I’d pitched my tent on a knoll overlooking the valley.  I doubt it’s an official campsite, more a scenic overlook.  Regardless, I wasn’t moving an inch farther.  I’d promised my feet an easy day—just two miles—and instead had walked eight miles, the longest distance yet.  I’d almost gotten myself into dehydration and overheating trouble, but had been given refuge from the sun and a bottle of cold water by the occupants of the Devil’s Pass cabin.  Then I’d walked another five miles.

I got water out of the creek and put some on the Pocket Rocket to boil so I could reconstitute the Mountain House chicken and rice.  A little tickle in my stomach indicated an appetite for the first time in this journey.  While dinner rehydrated, I set up my tent and even took a sponge bath.

Well, the cook stove LOOKED level when I set it there.

I ate about half the dinner and saved the rest for breakfast.  No way was I going to carry it out with me.   I hadn’t seen a bear box around, so my food supply was inside the tent with me.  Too bad for any bears that dared disturb me tonight.

The knoll overlooking the valley where I pitched my tent.

There was a chill in the air tonight, but I was still warm from the long hike in the hot sun.  I’d worn only but short sleeved tee shirts so far, except for the first night when I’d donned a long-sleeved SPF shirt to keep the mosquitoes and moose flies from chewing up my arms.  Tonight’s chill, though, was perfect for sleeping.

When I awoke in the morning and finally rolled out of my sleeping bag, the sun had warmed the valley.  I boiled water for tea and to heat up the left-over chicken and rice.  I struck camp and was packing when Dan and his daughter Peterhaus wandered in.

Dan and daughter Peterbaugh.

“Wow!,” said Dan.  “You sure walked a lot farther than I thought you would yesterday.”  They had started out early as they had a time specific to meet their ride at the trailhead, so they ate lunch while I finished packing.  I thanked them again for the gift of water at the Devil’s Pass cabin.

“You might have saved my life,” I said.  We exchanged do-you-knows for a while, finding friends in common in the various places we’d lived.  Then Dan helped me lift my pack and we set out for the trailhead.  I told then to go ahead as they walked faster than me.

Dan and his daughter are already far ahead of me.

Bicyclers met me on the trail occasionally.  This was Saturday and the weather was terrific.  Perfect for mountain biking.

I stopped and taped up my feet.  They were moving just far enough forward on this decline to rub  where the toes bent, and a new kind of pain became my companion. 

Happy, happy CooBear.

On and on and on through dense vegetation I walked.  And then I met CooBear.  He was sitting in a couple inches of water on the side of the trail, a blissful expression on his face.  I envied that dog.  If there had been room, I would have joined him.

His humans were hiking up the trail and had stopped to filter water into a bottle.  I put “one MSR water filter” on my mental shopping list.

CooBear has a rather complicated name, but his humans just call him CooBear.  He’s Golden Retriever and standard poodle, a hybrid called goldendoodle.

I turned to continue my hike.  The trail rose slightly here.  I was wearing a visor and was watching the trail to avoid tripping on rocks.  I’d taken only a few steps when suddenly I was face-to-handlebars with a bicycle and a front tire  jerked and brushed past my left leg.    I jerked to my right.  I didn’t even have time to think about my reaction, and I can’t believe the bike never touched me.  That’s how close we were.

Lovely waterfall with goatsbeard in foreground.

The biker didn’t stop, didn’t say anything, hadn’t given a warning.  I like to think he’d been concentrating on missing the rocks, too, and hadn’t seen me.  He had to have seen me, I realized later.  After all, there were three of us on the trail in front of him, plus the dog.  This was the only instance of what might be inconsiderate trail etiquette that I encountered on the whole trip.

Arctic rose.

Bikers coming up behind me gave notice.  Bikers coming at me let me know how many were in their group when I stepped aside to let them pass.

Oh, those mountains in the distance looked very familiar

That one instance of something that could have caused me injury on a rugged hillside made me take action.  I shoved the visor up higher on my forehead so I’d have a better view.

My feet were hurting seriously now.  I watched as the vegetation began to change and tall cottonwood trees came into sight.  I crossed a small creek and knew I was slightly more than two miles from the end. 

I got out my cell phone to see what time it was and noticed I had reception.  I called Erin to let her know I’d be at the trailhead in a couple hours, figuring I was walking a mile an hour.  She said she’d be home by then and would pick me up.

Yes!  Quartz Creek.  Almost home.

I was in spruce forest now. 

I came to a larger creek and knew it was Quartz Creek.  Soon, soon, soon.  None too soon for my feet, though.  A downhill stretch about did me in.  I actually walked down part of it sideways, to keep my feet from rubbing more.

Traffic noise was very loud.  I’d been hearing it for quite a while, a constant roar that sounded like it was just around the next bend.  But, I lived in these mountains and knew the acoustics were zany and unreliable.

I was walking slightly uphill now.  I glanced ahead and saw something white flash by.  I looked again and something blue zipped past.  I got out the cell phone and called Erin.

Monkshood.  Poisonous but beautiful.

“Where are you,” I asked.

“I’m just passing the Devil’s Creek trailhead on my way home from Hope,” she replied.  “Where are you?”

“About a hundred feet from the trailhead,” I said.

“Let me run my husband home and I’ll be right back.”

Boots off and a glass of cold water.  I was now as happy as CooBEar.

“Bring me a tall glass of cold, cold water,” I said.

She did.  My late in life experiment was over.  I’d walked about 28 miles in four days, overweight, overloaded, and with bad feet.

While I waited for Erin, I started thinking about where I’d hike to next.  Just as soon as I could wear shoes again….

Happy trails.

(Note:  Lest you think I was exaggerating the condition of my feet, I could not wear socks until the second day, even though my feet were bandaged.  By the third day, I was able to wear my Teva sandals because the strap was below the skinned areas.  It was a week before I was able to wear shoes.  I am now back in my hiking boots—three weeks later.)

Ouch.  The white stuff is adhesive from tape.

I did it.  I hiked the red line from the bottom left, up and around to the bottom right.

The Resurrection Pass Journals, Chapter Seven

Day Two

Part Three

If you pick 'em up, O Lord, I'll put 'em down.

~Author Unknown, Prayer of the Tired Walker

The trail in the switchbacks led me higher and higher and higher.  I broke out of deep forest into tall grass and brush.   

As I gained elevation, I could see far down the valley to Juneau Lake.  From that perspective, and knowing that my previous camp was three miles beyond  what I could see of the lake, I’d walked a long way today.

That little light spot in the center is the grassy area at the end of Juneau Lake.

Now my feet were really ticked at me.  They’d been looking forward to stopping at five miles.  The next tent site/bear box was at mile 13.6.  I kept going.  I was out of treated water. 

Even though it was early evening, the sun was hot on that hillside.  I was watching for a relatively flat spot to pitch a tent.  There were none.

I kept trudging uphill through the tall grass and brush.  I came to a sign post indicating an alternate route to Swan Lake, so I knew I was at mile 12.9.  The tent camp site with a bear box was 7/10^th of a mile ahead.  I kept walking.

Swan Lake from my tent site.

I finally gave in to temptation.  I stopped at a trickle of a creek flowing through a small culvert under the trail and filled my water bottle with cold clean water.  I probably could have drunk some of the treated water in my pack, but it would have been warm by now.  I needed cold water and to heck with giardia.

Juneau Lake.  I had walked almost three miles to that end of Juneau Lake, then along the base of the mountain on the right, across the valley, and up this steep hillside.

Just when I was ready to pitch my tent in the tall grass, I spotted the post for 13.6.  Instead of  having an easy day, I’d just walked an equal distance as the day before, plus climbed the steep switchbacks.

Now to pitch that tent.  But first, drop the pack and get the hiking boots off.  Once that was done, I was in better shape physically and took some time to look at the view.

I was in a small mountain hemlock grove and there were very few bugs.  I could see all the way to Juneau Lake and in front of me was a view of Swan Lake. 

The bear box.

Now the tent.  I was much more organized about this whole camp thing than I’d been the night before in that swarm of insects. I took the food bag to the bear box and locked it up.  I wasn’t at all hungry but I took two peanut butter sandwiches out for dinner.  

Lay out the ground cloth and put the tent on top of it.  Put the silver  and orange poles together.  Notice the two orange poles-to-nowhere.

The orange pole fit into grommets at the top of the tent.  Everything is color-coded.

Another view.

Viola!  A rain fly drapes over the whole thing.

I didn’t want to cook any Mountain House.  Warm food didn’t sound appetizing at all and I was too tired to bother.

Storm clouds.

Storm clouds were rolling in from the north by the time I’d finished pitching camp.  I made sure everything was protected and crawled into the tent. 

I ate one peanut butter sandwich by making myself eat it.  I hid the other one under my sleeping bag and started laughing as I lay there.  Eating and keeping food in the tent was a big bear no-no, but I was wondering what would attract a bear more, fresh red meat with sore feet or a squashed peanut butter sandwich?

I’d walked two miles farther today than I’d intended.  That messed up my plan to walk five miles a day which would have perfectly spaced the days if I went out Devil’s Creek trail.  My original plan was to camp around 12 mile, then do these switchbacks tomorrow, and camp in Resurrection Pass tomorrow.

Now I was only two miles from where I’d intended to camp tomorrow.  I decided to stick to that plan tomorrow.   That would give my sore feet a much-needed break.

“Feet,” I said.  "Tomorrow you get a day off.  I promise.”

Again, sleep was a long way off.  The temperature was too warm for sleeping and I fought with the air mattress for a long time.   Next trip, I decided, I’d bring a foam mat instead.

I made it through the squiggly lines at the right of Resurrection Trail printed on the map, and camped for the night where the red line points north toward the "i" in National. 

The Resurrection Pass Journals, Chapter Six

 

  "The place where you lose the trail is not necessarily the place where it ends."
-   Tom Brown, Jr.

Day Two

Part Two

I paused for a long time at this bridge, lost in memories from April of 1973.  A group of us who worked in Girdwood were doing a ski/dog team journey on this trail.

The previous day had been rough.  Spring was early this April, and the snow was rotten.  When my dogs finally reached Juneau Lake, they sank into the snow with each step.  So did I.  I soon realized my boots were hitting water, probably overflow or meltwater on top of the ice.

The next morning, though, the snow had solidified in the chilly night air and the dogs flew up the lake to this bridge, where we once again paused to wait for the skiers to catch up.

The bridge to memories.

It was a different bridge then, of course, with high side rails, and was still covered with snow.  The snow had melted along the edges, leaving a two foot high berm down the center of the bridge, one not wide enough for my sled.  I would have to place the sled carefully to straddle the berm.

My lead dog would have none of it.  Again and again I had to drag her back to the bridge.  She kept breaking away and insisting on running straight up the valley.  I knew where the trail was.  We had to cross the bridge to get to it, regardless of the faint snowmachine tracks going the way my lead dog wanted to go.

I finally had my way. 

Later on in the trip I would learn that my lead dog Kole was right.  Had we followed her up the valley, we all would have had a better trip.

Kathy, a skier, would not have broken her big toe on the ups and downs of the summer route.  Paul may not have aggravated a heart condition.  The whole trip would have been easier and faster if I’d listened to a smart lead dog.  But no, I knew where the trail was.  The summer trail, but not the winter trail.

As the dogs ran across that narrow berm, the sled leaned to the right and my arm hit the high rail.  My down parka snagged on a small sliver.  The dogs kept going, pulling through the resistance.   I kept trying to shake loose of the sliver.

I felt it touch my skin and scrape along my forearm.  By the time that splinter broke loose, it was more than a foot long and over an inch thick at the broken end.  I shuddered at the thought of the injury it could have done had it stuck into my arm.  Major damage.  Instead, I had only a long angry scratch from wrist to elbow.

I don't what plant this is.  The patterns on the leaves caught my eye.

I finished with the reveries and crossed the bridge, another tent camping site, and wandered up the trail.  I was back in thick forest.  On and on and on, singing “Hickory, dickory, dock.”  I met no one else on the trail. 

After a long time, the vegetation changed again as the trail crossed the flank of a mountain.  Lots of rock and moss and lichen appeared, and I knew I was getting close to the trail’s intersection with Swan Lake trail, and my camping place for the night.

Fireweed against lichen.

Then, there it was:  Swan Lake straight ahead, my trail a 90 degree turn.  Camping within a quarter mile.  I was looking forward to this.

Aha!  My camp site should be close by.

I walked on, searching for the post that marked a tent site and bear box.  There should have been two of them in this area.

All of a sudden I was in the switchbacks.  This can’t be, I thought.  Where are the tent sites?  They wouldn’t put them in the switchbacks, would they?  Away from a water source?

This photo doesn't even start to show how steep the trail is through here.

Now I was confused and really tired.  Did I overlook the posts?  Were they covered with vegetation and hidden?  Maybe they were on the side trail to Swan Lake.  But, if that was so, why not mark them as Swan Lake trail .03 and .06, instead of 12.3 and 12.6 on the Resurrection Trail?  Wherever they were, I couldn't find them.

Now what was I going to do?  This was messing up all my plans.

I made the right hand turn where Resurrection Trail is printed on the upper left and was now in the squiggly lines that indicate the switchbacks.

The Resurrection Pass Journals, Chapter Five

Day Two

Part One

You need special shoes for hiking - and a bit of a special soul as well.

~Terri Guillemets

I awoke early the next morning, jumped out of my sleeping bag and dressed quickly.  I broke camp as fast as possible, stuffed everything in my backpack, and hit the trail running.

Yeah.  Right.

Well, some of that is true.

I DID wake early.  I turned on my cell phone to see what time it was, said, “No way!” and went back to sleep.  Then I woke up really, really, really late.  I wasn’t too concerned about how late it was, just a bit embarrassed.  I was thinking five miles a day would be just about right for the time I had planned to be gone, and I had all day  the rest of the day to walk that far.

I did NOT jump out of my sleeping bag.  I lay there doing a mental inventory of each moving part of my body to see if it could still move.  I inspected my feet.  So far, so good. 

Not too bad.  Some red spots, some taped spots, but doing okay.

As to dressing quickly, I needed to do this in my single width tent to avoid a massive bug attack.  Picture the helicopters in Apocalypse Now.  I was either lying down or sitting up, depending on which half was receiving clothing.  Have you ever tried getting dressed while lying down?  With a bum shoulder?  That is not a situation to which “quickly” could be applied.

I DID break camp as quickly as I could because the bugs were after me again.  I DID stuff everything in my pack willy-nilly because the food and cooking gear were a hundred yards away in the bear box.  Still wearing the surf shoes, I carried everything up to the bear box spot.  

Great camp spot at mile 6.9.

It was so late in the morning, I no longer felt like my morning cup of Constant Comment tea, so I had lemonade with my peanut butter sandwich.  I put on my hiking boots, packed everything, saddled up, and headed to the trail.

Twenty steps later, my right hip called for attention.   I stopped to meditate medicate.  Two blue Aleve should take care of that, I figured, plus keep the feet numbed for a while.

The terrain was flat.  I was in a sub-Alpine elevation, not yet above tree line, but where the trees didn’t grow too tall and there was lots of open space.  I walked through a small patch of brush into the open.  Immediately I recognized a healthy spruce tree all alone in a small open area.

The napping tree on the right.  I paused here to tell the tree how happy I was to see it had grown into a fine specimen.  Okay, I really paused here to remember my dog team.

In April of 1973, a group of us who lived in Girdwood went on a spring ski trip through here.  I carried most of the heavy supplies on my dog sled.  At this very spot, I’d brought the team to a halt to wait for the skiers to catch up.  My lead dog and swing dog walked off the trail and settled on the moss under this tree for a nap in the warm spring sun.  I have a photo of that nap somewhere, and the tree then was a small sapling.

I walked on.  My bear song changed.  I was tired of “Hello, Dolly.”  I have never been able to remember the words to songs, so while I was searching the memory banks for a song I could recall, I heard myself singing, “Hickory, dickory, dock.  The mouse ran up the clock….”

A robin led the way up the trail for about a hundred yards.  It would fly fifty feet ahead, wait for me to approach, then fly another fifty feet and wait.

I met four guys who’d been fishing, and then a short time later three young women approached.   We stopped to chat.  They had started from Hope and walked nineteen miles the first day.  I was impressed.

They were carrying fairly light packs because with three, they could share equipment.  They were also a third my age.  And I’ll bet they didn’t have bunions, either.  Anyway, they were very nice young women and I don’t envy them as much as it sounds.

After I’d been walking about an hour, I came to Falls Creek, and stopped to fill my now empty water bottle.  A bicycler passed me, heading in the same direction I was.

Bridge over Falls Creek.

The vegetation had changed again to thick cottonwood and spruce and I reached what is called Romig cabin.  It’s called that because it replaced what used to be a picturesque log cabin owned by the Romig family of Cooper Landing.  

Romig public use cabin.

This was the first time I’d seen the new (to me) design of Forest Service cabins and I like it a lot.

Dining table and kitchen area at Romig cabin.

Bunks for four or a friendly six.

View of Juneau Lake from the front porch.

Canoe for use by those who reserve the Romig cabin.

I spent about an hour in the cabin, rearranging my pack so it didn’t pull so much on my shoulders.  I finished off the cold Chili Mac and ate a Fiber One bar not because I was hungry, but because I didn’t want to carry them any longer.

Then I headed for my next stop, the Juneau Lake cabin.  I knew the trail would wind along the lakeshore, and I was looking forward to this section.  

Juneau Lake.

The trail along the water is lovely, lined with wildflowers, and scenic overload.

Don't think I've ever seen a lilac-colored moth before.

I paused for a while at Juneau Lake cabin, just to look around and take a few photos.

Juneau Lake public use cabin.

The diabolical steps at the Juneau Lake cabin.   Lots of hard work went into building these.

I have many fond memories of staying in this cabin, both in summer and winter, though the cabin then was the old style, not this spacious, lovely style.  It’s also on a much higher hill than the old cabin had been, which I thought somewhat diabolical when I climbed the steps up to it.

On my way again, I came across the bicycler I’d see at Falls Creek.  He was engaged in fishing, rod in one hand and a huge Fosters beer can in the other.  He was a man at peace with his world.  We talked for a while and then I continued on my way.

I had about two and a half miles to my intended destination for this day.

I knew what was coming next.  At the end of the lake, the trail make a sweeping right turn in a narrow neck between two mountains and crosses a small creek in an abrupt left turn.   

Almost forty years ago, at that creek and on the bridge that spans it, I had two experiences.  One could have been  life-threatening; the other was life-affirming.

From the Trout Lake area I headed north.  My intended destination to camp this day was just under the words Resurrection Trail on the upper left of the map, just before those squiggly lines that look like a seismograph's earthquake reading.