And I have a lot of catching up to do, transcribing journal entries and updating the blog. I promise it will happen within the week, it’s just real life has been really overwhelming.

In the meantime, you can check out all of my photos, which I finally posted: The Desert, The Sierras, Northern California, Oregon and Washington.

Also ABear’s Photo.

Shawn and I were planning to climb Prime Rib, a massive multi-pitch sport route outside Mazama, but I haven’t climbed all summer, so it seemed a little too challenging. Instead we ended up doing some easier single-pitch sport at the Sun Rocks. We even brought ABear along, who redpointed a 5.8 in chacos and rappelled for the first time.

We also spent some time in Winthrop, which, along with Mazama and the rest of the Methow Valley, is one of my favorite places on earth. We ate breakfast at the Duckbrand, drank blueberry beer at the Old Schoolhouse Brewery and resupplied at the awesome candy store. A most excellent town stop.

Thanks to ABear for the photo.

Stehekin is the ultimate small town. It has all of 75 permanent residents. Situated at the north end of Lake Chelan, the road to Stehekin washed out a few years ago, so the only way into town is by boat or floatplane. The phone lines are all satellite. There are dairys and orchards. People use wells and solar power. There’s a one room school. There are actually barn raisings. It creates this super-cool small town sense of community, of mutual aid and rugged individualism. Some Stehekin residents take it a bit too far, being John Birch Society-style ideologues, but most of the residents just love the small town life and being surrounded by the outdoors.

But without a doubt the best part of Stehekin was the baking company. They have the most incredible pastries, a goat dairy and an amazing kitchen garden. It may have been the best cinnamon roll on the trail. The bakery is only open a few days a week in the late season, but they put day old baked goods out in their gazebo, where hikers can buy them on the honor system. Still, ABear and I decided to stay until the bakery opened, so ABear could do his entire resupply there. He ate nothing but cinnamon rolls, scones, muffins, twists, coffeecake and homemade bread for three days straight, and enjoyed every minute of it. I was a little envious myself.

Stehekin also has a strong nostalgia element for me because as a child my family always vacationed in Chelan, at the south end of the lake. It really doesn’t feel like summer has started until I’ve swum in the lake. Next up, on trail tie-dying and Scrabble tournaments.

Photo credit to ABear. My camera battery had died a few days back.

Regardless, you shouldn’t believe any of the hype about it being impassable or unsafe. It’s totally hikable, it’s just slow going sometimes. The detour is tough going too, and nowhere near as scenic. The obstacles and isolation make this section that much more rewarding.

Many of the bridges were wiped out, including those over Milk Creek and the Suiattle River. The trail has been rerouted a mile down Milk Creek to another bridge, but we decided to bushwhack down to the original crossing, boulderhop the creek and climb back up the embankment. I would have been pissed if we had hiked all the way down to the bridge, only to hike back up to where we just were.

There’s still no bridge over the Suiattle River, which makes it impassable for stock and trail crews with heavy equipment like saws and shovels. The Suiattle is scary. It’s wide, deep, milky-white from glacial silt, fast-moving and full of shifting boulders so, unlike Sierran streams, it can’t be forded. Instead we crossed over downed log. I straddled the log and scooched across, getting splinters in the sensitive skin on my inner thighs, while ABear, always braver than I, just walked across.

Even worse were the blowdowns. On steep slopes with a northern exposure many of the trees were already weakened by some sort of blight and hundreds of trees were blown down. Many of the trees were old growth, five to fifteen feet in diameter and hundreds of feet long, forcing us to scramble over them again and again as we switchbacked down. Each tree knocked others down with it, so they were like gigantic pick-up-sticks littering the hillsides. In some areas we could only go one to two miles an hour, as opposed to our usual three, which was super frustrating, tiring and taxing. Still, it was well worth it for the scenery.

My camera battery gave out in this section so photo credits go to Craig Stanton, class of 2007.

That sentiment is applicable to everything in my life. I know it sounds simple and silly saying it this way, but everything big and impressive can be that easy, if you just break it down into small steps. So often I try things, and give up if I’m not immediately good at them, instead of trying harder. As a result, I’m not really really good at many things.

I’ve also been thinking about how amazing and fun the past 2500 miles and five months have been. I am so fortunate to be here. Still, it irritates me to no end when other privileged people tell me that I’m so lucky to be living the dream, that they wish they could do it. But they could if they wanted. Living the dream is really easy if you pick the right dreams. If this is your dream save up a few thousand dollars, quit your job, leave your lease, put your relationships on hold and go for a walk. What’s the worst that could happen? It’ll probably be well worth it.

It’s another easy to articulate, hard to actuate idea the applies to other areas of my life. The trail has taught me to take risks and reap the rewards. This trip I’ve tried so many previously unthinkable things, I’ve pushed all of my boundaries. I’ve asked a lot of both myself and others and usually it’s worked out well. So often I don’t go for things because I’m scared I’m not good enough and I hate being rejected, so I miss a lot of opportunities.

The Dinsmores live down highway 2 from Steven’s Pass. They used to live in Skykomish, but an eroding creekbed and eminent domain forced them to sell the house in Skykomish and buy a lot in nearby Baring. The house is still under construction, but the barn made perfect hiker housing.

It was a riot. There were tons of hikers there, including Hemlock and Drifter, Basil, Dash and Wildchild, the 6 Million Steps crewmembers, who are making another PCT documentary, and who we like much more than the Natty G crew, and Stumbling Norweigen and Trashman, who I hadn’t seen since mile 50 or so.

Jerry and Andrea are amazing, generous and openhearted, gruff and vulgar all at the same time. People often say they remind them of the Andersons, of Casa de Luna. They may also be ABear’s biological parents, given his striking resemblance to Toby, his long lost twin, pictured here.

(To the tune of “Twist and Shout)

You know I love my baby,
Love the way she hugs.
But people don’t understand it,
She’s a banana slug.

Chorus:
Ba na na slug
Banana slug – Ba-na-na-na-na-na-na
Banana slug – Ba-na-na-na-na-na-na
Banana slug – Ba-na-na-na-na-na-na
Banana slug

She just got one foot,
She ain’t got no toes.
She hangs out in the forest,
To help it decompose.

Chorus

The way she wiggles her antenna,
You know it gives me such bliss.
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon banana slug,
won’t you give me a kiss.

Chorus   

The way she slides through the forest,
You know she looks so fine.
C’mon, c’mon banana slug,
Won’t you take off your slime.

Chorus

Some folks say that she’s gross,
But I won’t hear that jive.
‘Cause without my baby,
The forest might not survive. Chorus  

The hotsprings are the best I’ve ever been to. It’s a hot sulphur spring, beginning deep in a cave and cascading out into two smaller pools, situated in lush old growth forest on Burntboot Creek. The hotsprings are privately owned and managed for conservation purposes, which keeps them pristine. Moreover, the road to the hotsprings has been washed out, making it an eleven mile trek over rough terrain at minimum. We had the hotsprings all to ourselves. PCT hikers have been the only visitors all summer so caretakers were super kind to us, asking us to pay what we could instead of the full $15 and taking tons of time to talk with us. Hippoducky, the pink rubber bath toy Firefly gave me back in Old Station, was especially happy there.

I owe thanks to a lot of friends and family: To my grandparents John and Janet, who sponsored the entire expedition; to Victoria and John, who acted as quartermasters general; to Shawn, for so many kinds of support they cannot all be named; to Judy, my surrogate mama; to Red Scott, for the wonderful care packages and cheerleading; to my Dad, captain rafter; to Kathi, who let us use her house for my incredible birthday party; to my Aunt Nan and Grandma, who will act as getaway drivers;

I also owe thanks to a lot of new friends and trail angels: To Chuck and Tigger, who acted as mobile support; to Scout and Frodo, of San Diego, who helped me start the trail; to Boomer and Hector; to Grayson, of the Big Bear Hostel; to the Saufleys, of Agua Dulce; to the Andersons, of Green Valley; to Anthony, of Mama Hillybeans in Tehachapi; to Tom, of Kennedy Meadows; to John, of Elevation Climbing in Lone Pine; to Michael, of the Tuolumne Meadows Post Office; to John David Corry, and everyone at Glen Aulin High Sierra Camp; to Nate and Hank, of the Red Moose Cafe in Sierra City; to the Williams, of Bucks Lake; to the Heitmans, of Old Station; to the Lees, of Tacoma; to Gnome Norm, of Mt. Ashland and to the Dinsmores, of Skykomish.

This cake, made by Shawn Murphy, is one of the coolest gifts I’ve ever gotten. It was baked with locally sourced, organic, fair-trade chocolate, filled with Jamieson ganache and iced with Bailey’s frosting. Around the edge are fondant forms depicting my PCT journey, starting with the desert, passing through the Sierras, past Shasta, back into the Cascades. I am so loved, and so lucky to have such great friends.

Thanks to Liza, Cory, Sarah and Dan for taking us to the theater for my birthday. It was a riot!

At one point, when I looed outside I could see St. Elmo’s fire, like faint blue sparks stretching skywards, calling to be struck by lightning. You could hear a faint hiss and feel the static electricity before the strikes, the air was so electrified. The thunder was so loud it would have ruptured our eardrums, had we not held our mouths open. In the morning many of the smaller trees around the tent had been blown down, and small fires were burning where lightning had struck.

I’m normally a little unnerved by thunder and lightning, but this totally terrified me, reducing me to tears. So rather than stick out more lightning storms and deal with the sodden and soggy aftermath, we headed into Seattle. My apologies to everyone who stuck it out.

Also, totally not my photo. This photo of Mt. Rainer was taken by ABear earlier in the day. I was rendered a sobbing, shaking mess, curled in the corner of the tent and paralyzed by fear, wondering whether I should be warm and dry, but near the tent poles and packs, or outside and exposed.

They grow in open areas, so the fire-ravaged forests of Southern Washington are ideal berry fields. Native Americans one summered here, picking berries, racing ponies, hunting and hanging out. Such a life thru-hikers and hunter-gatherers have.

In the Goat Rocks Wilderness, near Trout Lake WA. If you look closely you can trace the trail all the way up the ridgeline.