A wild day - Boiling Lake

July 18
Boiling Lake
7 miles

I apologize for the interruption, but today was rather intense. So now that I’ve finished my delicious dinner of Annie’s Mac and Cheese, I thought I’d write about it.

After a good sleep, I got out of bed around 0715, after 2 hours of tossing and turning as the sun’s rays beat down on the yellow fabric of my tarp, of course. I ate my organic pop-tart things (organic doesn’t necessarily mean healthy I suppose, but man they have a lot of calories for the weight!), and enjoyed my usual morning cup of Mate, then packed up and called dispatch on the radio.

“Wenatchee 5-Robertson on Old Maid”

No response, I repeated the call, tried other repeaters (radio repeaters placed on-top of various mountains, so you can contact others from far far away, Old Maid was a close repeater and usually worked at Boiling Lake). Still not response. I thought perhaps I had brought the wrong batteries, tried my spares, radio said ‘low battery’. SHIT! Day 2 of 5 and I can’t contact anyone. What if this is a big deal? What if they send a fucking chopper to find me, what if I get hungry and need to order a pizza? Seriously though, I had no idea if this was a minor irritation, or major issue. I borrowed AA batteries from 2 guys camped at Boiling, no luck. So I asked if they ahd a cell phone. Their slightly confused look disappeared when I told them that one could get full reception on Horsehead Pass, where I then headed. I tried calling the Wenatchee number on the maps I carry to hand out to hikers and such, disconnected number (fucking great resource). I called Randy and left a voicemail that, in hindsight, probably had me sounding like a scared kid. I called Ron Dahl, got through only to have the phone die as I told him my radio was dead (after calling the Chelan office and asking for Ron 3 times in 2 minutes, phone dying each time, they must LOVE me). So what did I do? I laughed, and said FUCK IT! What could I do?

I attempted to countour around Mt. Bigelow, so I wouldn’t have to hike all the way back down to Boiling Lake and then up to Hoodoo Pass, and quickly found out that wasn’t going to work. So I stumbled my way down the talus and back to the trail. On my way down, as I passed the split in the trail just above Boiling Lake, I recalled a playfull chipmunk that I had seen on my way up and looked to see if he was still scampering around. Just as I figured he had left, I saw him, hiding, face first, between to small rocks, barely equal to his own size (and he was very little). “What a terrible hiding spot”, I thought, like an ostrich with it’s head in the sand. So I backed off, not wanting to scare him/her, and waited for him to notice my absence and make his escape (I’m just going to call it him so I don’t have to write him/her every damned sentence, deal with it). But he didn’t move. I looked closer and realized he might not be hiding, but what then? I removed the smaller of the two rocks that created the “V” he was in, still no movement. I could see the little one’s chest, he was breathing, perhaps rapidly (but then smaller animals usually have faster heart/respiratory rates). I realized the other two hikers, had most likely squished him on their way up by accident. This broke my heart. I spoke softly to the chipmunk, and gently stroked his back, waiting for the tears of this insignificant yet absolutely devastating moment, that I knew would come. What could I do for this tiny creature? I knew the answer that was indeed, no answer. The sun was getting warm, and the chipmunk lie subject to its full intensity, that much I could take care of, if nothing else. I gingerly picked him up by the scruff of his neck, instantly amazed by the paper-thin thickness of his skin, even under the incredibly soft two toned brown fur. I set him under the overhang of a larger rock, sheltered from the sun, in soft duff, and cried. And I cried more. I thought about how it must feel, the pain (I noticed his tiny back leg looked broken), the fear, both of the situation, and perhaps my very presence. I thought about the end, my loved ones. How will I bare those losses when I can’t even bare this? I thought about the hikers that likely caused this to happen, it angered me, imagining them bullshitting and clomping around in unnecessarily big stupid fucking boots they probably bought from the REI in Seattle, enjoying their hike while killing nature with their blind, self-centered and oblivious bullshit. Then it was time to leave this poor poor thing, to die, alone.

As one might guess, my day was off to a very rough start. I tried to remind myself of the impermanence of life, that there were plenty of chipmunks, but it did little to console the sadness I felt. So I continued down the trail, into the rest of the day. A little pissed that something so small could mess with my head like that, but oh well, sometimes it just hits you…

I walked on, got a hold of my emotions somewhat, sawed a fallen log on the trail, and as I headed toward the Cub Lake/Hoodoo Pass junction, thought I heard a noise in the distance.

This area, I was told, especially the basin east of Hoodoo, is home to a wolf-pack, the first in Washington in a long time. Ever since I had hoped to one day just hear them call, and I believe I did. Straining to hear, hands cupped behind ears, I listened to the barking and howling. It really didn’t sound like a coyote, no yips or yaps.

It was a special moment, not like a bomb of jubilation, simply quiet reverence for something sacred. I thought, "how crazy and cool it is that there are WOLVES here”! Then I thought about how fucked up it is that wolves aren’t everywhere. So Griz’ and Wolves are coming back, it is sad that we have to celebrate the return of something we almost killed off the face of the earth, and we should feel shame because of it. Nonetheless, it was something.

Next I headed up to Hoodoo pass, to check out he snow levels for the trail crews that would be heading that way (if the snow was gone). As I topped out the pass, I heard more barking, much closer, and thought “shit man, wolves everywhere”! But no, I could see some fellas down the pass a bit, so I headed that way to chat. 2 hikers were already headed down the other direction, so I said hi to a father and son with 3 llamas. Since I was just checking out the snow, I walked with them up the backside of the pass. The father, Steve, has an orchard in Bridgeport, not far from here, the son talked constantly, and reminded me of, me, mixed with that tweaker kid from that shitty movie filmed in South Lake Tahoe (Smokin’ Aces?). The trail had some big steep drifts of snow still, and it became apparent that the llamas weren’t at all stoked on traveling across them. Steve asked if I would help spot them. We arrived at the first drift and the lead llama (Max), stopped and refused to continue. Steve asked if I would take the lead rope while he gave Max a slap on the ass and a shove. I said sure, and ended up leading the pack up to the next drift, where the exact same scenario unfolded. This drift was worse though, loose talus and steeper snow. After much pushing, Max started to move, as did I, til I heard a crash and turned to see Max fall down (just down, not over on his side or anything like that), and clamber down the trail, with the other two llamas in tow, but Steve stopped them. We removed their panniers, and eventually got them untangled and over. I hauled two pairs of panniers up, as I knew the kid would not and most likely could not really help (he was 12ish), and that it would be a bitch for Steve to do all this by himself, and up we went. I got up the pass first, ate some trail mix, and decided to try the radio again. SUCCESS! I got through and learned that everyone was having radio trouble, not just me. So I then headed over to Chipmunk Pass, to ascertain snow levels, number of downed trees, and such. It was a beautiful pass, so I threw a dip in, got naked, and walked along the ridge in the buff as my sweat soaked clothes dried in the sun. It was very fun.

After some time, I headed back to Boiling Lake on a trail not on the map, passed the llama crew’s camp, and at some point decided I would check on the chipmunk, bring it water and some sunflower kernels to make it as comfortable as possible. To my amazement, it was gone. It either snapped out of ‘it’, or was nabbed by a predator, that will remain a mystery forever.

As I walked back down to camp, I reflected on the day, amazed at the insane contrast of the highs, lows, everything. I remember what I had read in Kerouac’s book, Visions of Cody, the night before:

“Nothing is gained in life, except death”

It’s true. All of our accomplishments, wealth, possessions, is all a smoke screen, a phantom, meaningless, distracting us from the harsh reality that always is. Perhaps I would add love to the list of that which is gained, love survives, or does it?

And now it’s 2050, the sky still bright, mosquitoes and marmots tucked in their beds, and myself, neck cramped from lying in the tarp and writing this rather lengthy yet fulfilling entry. So with a sigh and a good day done, good night.


Same night scribbling in journal-

“I’ve tasted, a life wasted, and I’m never going back again”