Day 6: To Kenosha, and beyond

We slept deeply last night, lulled by rain. I wake up before 6, Granite already up and outside the tent. It's cool in the morning and I wear my long underwear, wool hat, and puffy jacket. I choke down peach oatmeal. Granite helps me with some of it, for which I am grateful.

I set out in the morning while he finishes packing the tent and getting himself ready. It's before 8 AM and it's already sunny and sweet smelling. I climb up a hill, trail bordered by aspen and wild flowers. My heart feels light and I daydream.

I crest the hill and the world opens up before me. Distant mountains, sloping hillside, huge blue sky with tatters of clouds. I come across an older fellow sitting beneath a tree, little containers of food set out around him and an aluminum-covered cat can stove heating a worn pot. His name is Potlicker and he's hiking the first 17 sections. I ask him to tell Granite I passed at 8:15.

I walk on until I descend into a green ravine with a clear stream running through it and camping sites tucked under pine trees. I stop to wait for Granite and decide to filter a half liter of water.

My filter is a mini sawyer, which many backpackers swear by. It weighs 2 ounces, hence the love it gets. But it annoys me endlessly. It's probably fine if you attach it to a water bladder and sip through a hose attached to the filter. But I don't have a compatible hose. So I have to fill up an ultralight 2 liter Evernew water carrier. And then I attach the mini sawyer, turn the Evernew upside down over the wide mouth of my Camelbak, and wait. And wait and wait. Water comes out of the filter in a thin stream, like what you'd get from a straw. It's not a bad way to kill time while I sit on a log in the sunshine by a stream, waiting for Granite. I get to watch him appear and work his way down the ravine, and when he arrives we smile and say good morning.

He heads off to the next stream while I finish applying suntan lotion and filtering water. A girl is making her way down the far bank, and then I head up the incline and she passes me. She has an ultralight backpack with most of her gear attached to the outside, tiny shorts, and bug bites along her slender legs.

Granite and I rendezvous at the next stream and then head off for a long walk together. He brings up love in an interesting way. He says: "I've always struggled with resolutions, but you mentioned that your resolution was to be more loving. I wondered what you've been finding out in the process."

I have to haul my brain out of distant daydreams and focus, recognize that this is one of those conversations where I have to really pay attention. Focus, I tell myself. Don't drift off.

The resolution he's talking about isn't just about being more loving. It's to be grounded, loving, and gentle with myself and the world. And it wasn't a resolution exactly, more of an intention of where I wanted to head. But the loving part applied more to my relationship with Granite than the other parts. 

I think for a while, then say that I hadn't been practicing specific techniques for being more loving and ask him whether he thinks I'm loving. He says yes, and I smile and say, "Success!"

But then I get serious. I say, "I guess it's about practicing kindness and generosity to those you love, and thoughtfulness."

I ask him what he thinks ,and he generally concurs and says that the key many people are missing is how to listen—really listen, and not hear something other than what the other person is saying. He says he still struggles with that. But I think he's a great listener.

We crest a gorgeous hill and are greeted with sweeping views on three sides, majestic clouds and shadow-spotted mountain peaks, a wide valley and lush hillsides. We debate settling down for a bit but end up continuing on for another mile or so, then stretching the tent out on a grassy hillside to dry while we sit on the Thermarest in a tiny shadow of shade. I munch on a Snickers, dried mango, Doritos, and almonds.

A lithe, smiling guy with a black ponytail arrives and introduces himself as Power Thighs. He asks about the girl I saw before, and I say she passed me hours before. Her name is Hot Sauce.

Power Thighs joins us and regales us with tales of hiking. He finished the PCT and is planning to complete the Long Trail this October (in awfully cold weather), and he's clocking 20 mile days on this trip. He designs outdoor gear professionally, and Hot Sauce is a backcountry guide. They are wild and honed and I am awed by them. I ask him a ton of questions and he seems happy to answer, and after he leaves I have tons more I wished I'd asked. Potlicker wandered by as well while we were sitting, headed to Kenosha Pass to hitch to Jefferson to pick up a a resupply box.

Kenosha Pass beckons and I repeat it to myself -- Kenosha Pass. Kenosha Pass. But Granite warns it won't be angelic sweeping vistas. It's a paid camping ground, a parking lot, and a big road. But I don't care because I've been hearing about it for months and I can't wait for it.

Kenosha Pass is a dusty parking lot, pit toilets, paid campground, and busy road. So, at least Granite reined in my expectations.

It's grumbling thunder and dark clouds gather in every direction, and then rain starts spitting down on us. We throw on pack covers and rain jackets, but the showers only flirt and then recede.

Across the road at Kenosha, there's a trail register. I scan through the names ahead of us: Hot Sauce, Power Thighs, Hop Muffins. I look and look but don't see Steve. He should be way ahead of us. Granite says that Steve maybe didn't see the rail register of decided not to sign it. Decided not to sign it! How is that even possible?

I sign it: Rainey and Granite 7/21/16, SoBo" Granite's trail name is perfect for him but I'm not sure I've found mine. Granite says it should be Front Horse because I always want to go first (you would too if you were 5'3"and couldn't see around your trail partner) but I'm not sure. Everybody thinks Rainey is a trail name anyway.

We climb through the forest out of Kenosha Pass and try to grab some signal. We want to check whether Baker Lake is worth a detour, and whether there's camping beyond the first 3 miles of section 6. The next camping listed in the data book is at mile 12, which would make today a 22 mile day. Neither of us wants that.

We don't get data service but a friendly herd of boyscouts arrives. We ask their leader about camping and he tells us about a spot in 4.6 miles, and he asks about the trail we just covered. Then we split and head off down the trail, thunder grumbling louder.

We walk maybe a mile before the sky opens up on us, huge rain drops hurtling down. We stop to get rain gear back in place and Granite helps me cut a trash bag into a rain skirt. The next mile is awesome, rain pelting down and thunder ripping the sky above. If I were alone, I might be scared even. But because we're together it feels like a daring adventure.

The rain abates finally and we reach the stream and camping at mile 3. Two tents are already set up in the trees and we stop to consult the data book and discuss options. If we take the road, we can be at Baker Lake tonight and spend 3 more nights to reach Breck. Or we can push on and look for the camping the boyscouts promised and summit Georgia Pass tomorrow.

I definitely want to press on but I ask Granite what he wants. I'm worried he thinks I'm too mileage-focused, and that's a slight difference in our backpacking style. He's very much here to lose himself in the wilderness, drink it in and just be. And I love the wilderness, but I adore movement. That why marathon training delights me, even when there's no marathon to prep for. I love how steady, rhythmic movement, my body propelled over landscapes, calms my brain and fills my heart. I feel like a happier, more content human after a 16 mile run or a 7 hour hike. And the beautiful landscapes are part of it, but so is the hiking itself.

But Granite has made a few comments about feeling like we're flying through too quickly, so I hold back and ask him what he wants. And he says he'd like to go on. So we fill up water and head off.

The next 3 miles are unremarkable—climbing, rain, occasional views. We pass a great campsite next to the ominously named Deadman Creek, but press on. At just about 5 PM, we arrive at Jefferson Creek.

There's camping, thankfully. The boyscouts didn't lie.

We scout around trying to find a place away from the other backpackers. I find a side trail along the creek and follow it to the most perfect campsite imaginable—views of the hillside next to the high-flowing creek, flat and wide place for a tent, and great sitting logs by a fire ring. Best of all, we're totally alone.

Granite joins me and we put the tent up together quickly as it starts raining again. Our packs are safe inside and we climb in. Within a few minutes the rain fades.

I feel gross and sticky from 3 days of backpacking, and I concoct a plan to take a shower. Granite is skeptical because he's afraid I'll drench the tent, but agrees to help. I start by filling up the Evernew containers with water and stashing them by some trees near the tent. Then Granite starts heating water in the jetboil. Then I strip and step down into the rushing but not freezing water of the wide creek. I splash water all over my body as best I can, though it's too cold for me to jump all the way in.  Then I hurry back to the Evernews, soaked and shivering, and use a bit of Dr. Bronner's soap to suds up my arms, chest, armpits, nether regions, neck and legs. Then I throw water all over myself with the Evernews, hurry to the stream and grab more water, throw that on myself as well. Then I stand in a bit of sun and drink hot cocoa that Granite made me, waiting to dry a bit. Finally, no longer dripping, I crawl into the tent and lie damply on the sleeping pad, cold but not unbearably so.

Granite reads part of John Muir's My First Summer in the Sierra aloud to me, then we eat dinner—lasagna to celebrate section 6—and wander around looking at the beaver dams and the sunset. It rains on and off all evening but we stay pretty dry.