By this day, my feet grew accustomed to moving with the slip of the slates, which covered the exposed hillsides with slippery, but jagged tiles. We were off trail, and off of any expectations we created before this trip ever began. By now, I imaged myself to be in more discomfort from soreness or lack of decent sleep, but eight days balanced out across my feet, and the only pain that persisted was the imbalance I’d felt from being away from what was comfortable, and maybe a dislodged rock or two. Far off trail and far from anywhere familiar, we packed up what was left of our camp to make for Moose Lake by the end of the day. Theoretically, it seemed straight forward. But the cautious and perplexed looks that hung on Tim, Claire, and Courtney’s faces stated otherwise. It was weird to observe, since any perplexity that came from those three was never lacking confidence. Their distinct ability to read the map and direct us forward was diligently understood and trusted by everyone. Positive feedback of support that allowed everyone to blindly follow the most efficient route possible. With a few exchanged nods, inspiring words, and clicking of gear into place, we finally set out for the last full day we’d share together. Little did we know the few miles ahead to Moose Lake would stand to be one of the hardest challenges we’d need to overcome.
We already had an idea of what to expect when we all made the collective decision on the top of Lost Pass to go off trail to Moose Lake. Supposedly, the views were better, but we were taking a little bit of a risk given how it’s been nearly 10 years since Tim has been on this route. In bits and pieces, we picked up the old CCC trail here and there where we could, but ultimately, the journey was solely up to us. At the mercy of the map readers, we clamored along, hopeful of discovering new things as we aspired to reach the lake by nightfall. Right out of the previous night’s camp, the skies opened, and the sun began to intensely warm the slated hills at our feet. With a searing brightness from the sun that reflected off of the rocks below, I reassured myself on my previous decision to keep multiple layers on and keep a bandana over the back of my neck. At the beginning of the trip, I felt a little silly being so geared up from the sun, but each day, like today, I never regretted that decision. I had no burns, very few bug bites, and it allowed me to focus on the steps in front of me. For those who asked me if I was ever hot in my layers: yeah, I definitely was, but I didn’t want to be burned, and my layers were breathable, and it was day 8 and I was more stubborn than ever. I had to be, otherwise I would never get through each hike without sleeping in a bag of guilt later that evening thinking I was holding people up. Going off trail was hard, mostly because it was difficult to guess what was lying ahead for us around a corner, above a ridge, or beyond a stream. We just had to trust each other that we’d all make it to where we thought we were going.
A few days prior, the stubbornness I had for anything melted to my soles in goopy spurts that forced me to adapt to whatever was going to happen next. I had expectations for myself, the team, and the environment. The sun pierced through my armor of comfort, burning these expectations outwards like snuffing out a virus in my veins. Every turn yielded a new set of expectations, stacked in stones one above the other, forcing us to climb with desperation to beat the impending nightfall. My vision blurred looking up at the tower above us. Thousands after thousands of feet of clambering, sweating, cussing, and keeping to myself. Nothing that happened would matter, just follow the backpack in front of me and move. The horizon line blurred into the sun, and before I knew it, a burst of shade snagged at my clothes and skin, clawing for me to leave the rocks and join the roots (I wasn’t paying attention and got hit with several branches by the person in front of me when we finally got into tree cover). My exhaustion lulled me downwards. Down a hill? Down a stream? Down, down, down, left, right, left, left, right, just keep moving until the legs fall for themselves. Thoughts hazy, I roughly remember setting down my pack with the others while Tim and Courtney reviewed the map. Eventually, they dispersed to consider different pathing options, leaving us alone to break in the meadow while we could. Off path and off guard, we were vulnerable to the elements, but spirits were high at the cost of briefly underestimating dangerous possibilities. A brute wake-up call sounded from a thunderous crack that erupted from a steep rocky slope above our heads. In a split second, we all knew, and we all ran. Scattering like field mice, we fled in all directions as the cacophony of rocks and trees cascading down the slope sounded down toward us. My muscles ached but were forced to jumpstart in a survival race. Fast, but not as fast as the beat of my heart, pounding like drums to the rhythm of getting out of harm’s way. It was instinctive, but a false alarm thankfully as the sound of silence that followed the potential rockslide was only accompanied by our heavy breathing and sighs of relief.
From there my memory got hazy, falling back into a rhythm of following the person in front of me while trying to preserve as much energy as possible. I knew I would be one of the folks that would be taking the last major hike/jog back to the vans on the last day, so I wanted to save as much energy as I could. The constant hill climbs, bouldering, and uneven terrain certainly didn’t help with this. And in this heat? It was hard to even think. My mind felt pulled to the ground, lumbering forward until an unexpected change of scenery. From the dry earthy tones of glacial-grinded stone to a bright, punchy turquoise blue as my reflection peered into the surface of a fresh, pool of glacial water. A small lake with a melting glacier in its basin, which just so happened to be a false endpoint to our day’s journey. It was not Moose Lake. Just some completely unforgettable body of water that I definitely don’t remember the name of. Ha, ha, just kidding. It was a perfect circle of sublime turquoise, surrounded by craggy peaks and snowy slopes, a completely otherworldly place. This just so happened to be brief spot to break, eat, swim and have our final discussion, which I happened to be the one leading. We eventually made it down through the valley and up again, and down again to our final destination at Moose Lake. I was never so happy to see a campsite in my life. My bones ached and my muscles melted into the grass as I sunk to the ground with no intention of rising until the next day. I have a feeling tomorrow will be even worse, but who knows? Who cares? We’re all here, in one piece, happily eating and relishing the memories of the stories we’d tell of today in the future.
A highlight of my trip: You might have seen in the blog post for Day 3 that I caught a rainbow trout at Cedar Lake.
For context, I have never fished in my entire life, and I wasn’t ever planning on fishing in my life. However, this was a world I never knew I would ever be exposed to. I remember the day we were camping at Cedar Lake, and Courtney and I were just casually talking about some goals or aspirations we had for the rest of the trip. I wasn’t really too sure what to wish for, or what expectations I truly had about it by this point, so I jokingly said to her that I wanted to pet a fish. She laughed, and I laughed, and we both laughed because logistically, it was silly, I would not be in any situation where I would pet a fish. But I was wrong. Wayyyyy wrong. The fishy world was beckoning, and I was ignoring its call for too long. After that conversation, I went over to Mitch eventually and hung around waiting to see what people would be doing before dinner. I saw him setting up a bunch of gear and out of curiosity, I asked him what the heck he was doing. He was going to go fish for a while on the other side of the lake. I figured I had nothing else better to do, so I decided to go with him to watch some fish action. I didn’t come here for much but now my heart was set on seeing a fish. We set up our gear on the other side of the lake as noted and we eventually found an ideal spot to start tossing and reeling these guys in. Now, I have never fished or expressed interest in fishing in my entire life, but for some reason, the idea of it was bubbling with interest out of me, and now my stubbornness set in, and I was determined to see a fish. Mitch did his thing and walked me through how he usually goes about doing things, and cast his line out for the first few reels in. The hook snagged a few times on some trunks sunken into the lake, which Tim fished out by swimming out to the logs, but nevertheless, he didn’t give up and kept at if. A few more tosses later and all of a sudden, he handed the pole over to me and asked if I wanted to try it out for myself. My stomach sunk like bait to dirt, and I froze for a moment realizing this newfound power that was dropped into my hands. I figured, sure, why not try this out because in no other circumstance back at home would I ever have the opportunity to do so. My first cast, nothing happened, which was all I expected to get out of this experience, but then, upon my third or so cast, I felt a little bite (a strike). I was ecstatic at the mere thought of seeing a fish, but also a little crestfallen to see that the fish decided to be smart and not fall for the old bait n’ hook trick. The hook came back a bit more towards me as I continued to reel the empty line in, but it also snagged on a trunk. I handed the pole back to Mitch, who held it with a bit of confusion, then with a drastic, surprised look on his face, shoved the pole back to me because the fish came back for part 2. The heaven’s gate opened before me as the fish wriggled in my hands. I actually caught my first fish, a little Rainbow Trout. But it meant everything to me. I GOT TO PET A FISH.
BEST. DAY EVER. >{|||||}D
😀
(For real context, I just drew the fish a lot in my journal)
Overall reflections:
Traveling through the Olympics was not something I had intended on doing at any point if I’m being real honest here. I wasn’t under the impression that trips like this could be life changing for anyone so I didn’t go in with the impression that I would do anything major to me personally. In some ways, I was right. In reality, nothing to me, as a person, changed drastically after the trip. No new me. Just old me with numb toes and stories to tell. I was expecting to really wring myself out socially throughout the trip since I have a history of being especially talkative on trips I go on. I expected myself to have certain standards for what would happen, and in doing so didn’t hear a lot of the lessons the environment was trying to teach me. I fill voids with conversation and needless words, but for some reason, the nature around me out there sucked any voice I had out of me. Suddenly, I felt at a loss of words and motivation to speak, so I let myself fall through the roots of where my steps fell and let the world speak through me. I felt familiar with the breeze as it flowed wherever it needed to go. With no real rush to be anywhere and no obligations to commit itself to staying put. People were okay with it just sitting there and existing, being useful when needed. Out of character, I felt myself melt into observation, where the bulk of my experience was seen through observant eyes and patient ears. I felt pressured to stay quiet and accept whatever was going to happen to me and this was strangely okay with me. I know I wasn’t the most in tune with the group at times, but to me, that type of interaction wasn’t necessary for me to enjoy my time being with others out in such a isolated place. The talking disrupted my thoughts and pulled my attention away from letting my observational heart let loose on the things around me. I enjoyed hanging back and talking about things one step at my own time. There were some comments here and there about people’s speed and physical ability which were not the most encouraging to hear, which only reassured the feeling of safety I found with being quiet and away from others. To me, I was already setting an annoying tone by holding the group back and making them wait, which didn’t make me enthusiastic to really chime in with their bonding. Maybe it’s being trans or on the spectrum, but there’s something about me in groups that doesn’t quite fit in, so I found a lot of peace and solitude by talking to myself and the world around me. The trees are infinitely responsive, and the quiet songs of lilies give me more hope than any words of encouragement that would be called to the group ahead of me wanting me to catch up. The wilderness exists for any purpose, and everyone in the group had a different perspective on what that exactly means to them. I wish I could have listened to their perspectives a bit more closely. But listening from out of the circle was nice as well, hearing in on all the juicy details without putting myself too out there. If I can be really honest, I didn’t feel all that welcome by the students and it’s totally on me for not really trying to put myself into the group. This of course didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy their company, but I knew it wasn’t going to be a deep pool of relationships I would dive into, so I let myself float in their peripheral vision. In the blurry corners of their scope, I found my focus. The plants around me were like nothing I have ever seen before. The wilderness gave me a chance to really look at myself and how I project my personality in the real world. The things I didn’t like about myself and how I act I saw in the group. Talking normally, with normal interests and normal aspirations with equal passion. The group took the traits I don’t like about myself and made it work for them, and I found peace seeing how they all got along and had fun. The woods were a catalyst for the child in them to roam free. A child I wish I could have seen in myself, running around with friends, discovering bugs and trees and endless blue skies on a warm summer day. I wanted to be there, with them, experiencing the things I’ve always wanted. But in this body, I am limited to a hollow projection of what could have been. The moss invited me to sit and the trees told me to watch and the water held me open for the world to really see who I am. The wilderness serves as a lesson to teach us who we are. A space to be left with nothing but us to watch and learn from our own actions. The space holds the memory of who you were before and after you desperately scrambled to this place. Looking out on the edge of an endless sea of trees, what do you see? Or better yet, how much of yourself do you see in the land before you? I left with an impression of myself in the world I left behind, but it’s all a lie. Such beauty all around me that I’ve been ignoring because I claim the nature around me was a beauty apart from me. But in the ignorance, I learned in this moment, it was all a reflection of love to the beauty I wish I saw in myself. I feel as if I owe myself and others this same experience, being able to come out here and discover the aspects of ourselves that we couldn’t see otherwise when in the thick of it all. But it takes effort to take care of wilderness spaces, like taking care of ourselves. If we never get around to it, allowing the problems to overgrow and fester out of control, then we’ll never better ourselves and experience life living as a human, or give the chance the tree gets to live its life like a tree. I assume with no love or care for this place, it will wither, like all places will inevitably. But somehow it will come back, whether by our own hands or by the hands of its own when we are all gone.
