Day 157: Mile 2525.5 - 2541.5

Day three of the storm.

I thought it was hard getting going yesterday. It was harder today. Granted the storm seems to be abating: it wasn't as bad today as it was yesterday, and it wasn't as bad yesterday as it was day one. But so has been my ability to cope. And by today, I was in pretty poor shape. And I knew I had to move: I only have so much food, and Stehekin is so far away. So taking a zero isn't an option: I need to move. And the move isn't that far, I just need to get to the Suiattle River, just 16 miles away. Granted it's over what's allegedly one of the biggest climbs of the trail--one Guthooks comment called it "hardest type 2 fun on the PCT"--but that didn't matter. I didn't care if it was easy trail or hard trail, I just cared that it would be wet and rainy. Again. Forecast called for rain--40%-50% chances--all day. And I just didn't want to hike in the rain anymore. More than anything, the thought that the storm was supposed to pass by tomorrow, so tomorrow afternoon the sun should come back out: that possibility just made the rain that much more onerous. And I didn't want to hike.

But I knew I had to. And I started my morning pack up, but was slow and inefficient about it, and didn't end up getting going until 11am. That's a very bad sign: get going later than that, and there's a chance I don't even make it to Suiattle, and then what? Stuck hiking at night, in the dark, in 40 degree weather in the rain, trying to find campsites in the woods? Not gonna work. So I was surprised when I left it and it was already that late, but also not surprised given my general lethargy for hiking today.

And today was a just hike day. No looking at scenery, no appreciating the view, no breathing in the journey and reflecting on its rapidly approaching conclusion. None of that. Just the 10-feet of dirt and rock in front of me, for 7 and a half hours.

The climb was 5 miles of switchbacks to the first peak, then a slight downward lull as the trail became exposed and reverted to a shelf-trail following the contours of the mountain, then 2 miles to the next peak. But it wasn't as bad as advertised. At the first peak I got water, because I hadn't drunk any yet all day, but it was cold and rainy and windy so I just collected water--didn't bother to filter it--and continued on. The second peak came and went and I didn't even realize it was behind me until I looked up to see I was doing switchbacks again, but now vaguely downward. The trail quickly reentered the tree line, and then continued with the switchbacks. Over this stretch, there were downed trees; I counted 64 such trees that required a change in stride, some as simple as a step over, others requiring detours that were gnarly and honestly as dangerous as some river crossings. There was one river crossing towards the bottom that was scary: mostly shallow, but it had one part where the water was flowing white and strong and deep, and there weren't many options for footing. I rock hopped it, but probably got the bottoms of my feet wet--if so, I wouldn't notice because they were already soaked. And by the time I was a few miles out from Suiattle, the rain started in force again, so when I finally reached the river and found a tentsite, I put down my footprint, turned around to get the rest of my tent pieces, and when I turned back the footprint had already collected several small pools. But the tent was already wet anyway, so what did it matter?

So that was the hike. Like I said, just hike and go as fast as I could to make sure I made it to Suiattle before dark. And just managed to do so. Memorable parts? Hmm. Well at one point, when the downward switchbacks first started and the trail was still in the exposed section (i.e., before it sank below tree line), I remember for a moment the rain stopped and it was so quiet, so silent, the only sound my hurried footsteps taking lots of small steps to avoid slipping. And then the rain started again and the patter patter sound on my head came back. What else? Hmm, in the exposed portion there were several streams, all cascading down these rocky portions, and they were fun to cross. What else? Well, not much really: when I say it was a just-hike day, I mean pretty much that.

And I know I'm supposed to be enjoying this spectacular scenery (well, when I can see it through the fog), and I know I'm supposed to be living in the moment, but all I could think of all day was getting back into my tent, back into my (thankfully still) dry clothes, and under my sleeping bag. That's all I wanted today, beauty of nature be damned.

So instead, let's talk about handling the rain. Some notes:

-- Umbrella. I used the umbrella on day one, but even then, when the storm kicked in in force, the umbrella became useless. And it has been ever since. Because I often need to use trekking poles in *both* hands: I use poles for stability, and after the rain has gotten going around here, things get muddy and otherwise slippery, so poles become an invaluable insurance policy. But a pole in each hand means no hand for the umbrella. And, yes, I could get a hands-free attachment for the umbrella--those often fail as well as they work, though--but even then, on lots of these portions there are tree branches at head level, or overgrown plants as tall as eye level, so I would need a hand on the umbrella to compensate properly, lest the umbrella get caught and torn or otherwise damaged. So: umbrella turns out to be useless after about 4 hours of rain, let alone 3 days of it!

-- Tent. Is wet, and there's nothing for it. After I set it up, I do go in with a shamwow (that's tearing by now--big hole in it) and try to mop up as much of the water as I can. This takes a while, lots of wiping then wringing then repeating. This won't get the tent dry, but it will get it damp rather than wet, and that just has to be good enough. Tent is always set up on a slant to prevent water from pooling beneath it.

-- Tent configuration. I divide the tent into two sides: a dry side, and a wet side. On the dry side is my sleeping pad, and everything on it--my sleeping bag, myself (I sit on the sleeping pad when I'm in the tent) is meant to stay dry. On the wet side is my backpack--which is wet and there's nothing for it--and my rain clothes, usually splayed out as best I can so they can kinda dry somewhat. Ideally, the dry side is higher than the wet side--today I noticed pools of water had collected, inside my tent, on the wet side--and although this may lead to worse sleep as I feel like I'm always falling off a ledge, it keeps my drier and that's worth more.

-- Clothes. Are wet, sopping wet. I wring them out as best I can, but they're still wet. I follow Otter's advice though: I put them into a Dyneema bag--my old food bag back in the desert before I converted over to Ursacks for northern California--seal it, and then sleep with it. That way, in the morning, my clothes will at least be warm and wet, rather than ice cold and wet. Putting on wet clothes in the morning, though, still remains my biggest mental hurdle. And I know that the sooner I put them on, the sooner my body heat can start working to dry them, and that reasoning works when my clothes are damp because of sweat from yesterday. But when they're straight wet--like pulled out of the washer before the spin cycle wet--that logic can't overcome the icky feeling of pulling that stuff on. Pulling on my wet long sleeve shirt to start is pretty bad, but pulling on my wet underwear is the worst.

-- Oh, I did finally add the hoodie to my loadout today, mostly because I've been pretty cold the past couple days on downhills. (In theory, I would just break it out on downhills, but I know I'm not going to stop, in the driving rain, at the top of some pass, and start opening up my backpack and disrobing to put on a hoodie--I'll just freeze to death doing that So put it on in the beginning, even though it theoretically makes you overheat on the uphills--and just leave it on all day.) Seemed to help: wasn't as freezing as the past couple days.

-- Oh, also: tuck in your shirt in the rain. I didn't on day one, and towards the end of the day I was getting new, cold water on my behind, enough that I thought that my rain pants must have ripped back there. They hadn't. But on days two and three I tucked in my shirt and that feeling never happened. So: tuck in your shirt.

-- Gloves. The wool ones are the best I can do. They get wet and my hands get cold--I lose the ability to pinch which makes things like opening wrappers of bars, or even opening Ziploc bags, pretty much impossible--but I can still move my fingers somewhat, which is good. The first day, I made the mistake of not putting on gloves until very late, and lost the use of my fingers entirely. I do have an extra outer shell I can put on, ostensibly waterproof, but they soak through pretty quick. They're useful if it's windy--wind goes right through wool--and maybe as another sheltering layer, but they're also oversized so even if I can pinch, usually the empty fingertips get in the way. But I carry them around for the exposed sections, and also to shield the more valuable wool gloves if I'm doing tree puzzles and grabbing things, for example.

-- Socks. I bought two more pairs of socks in Leavenworth: thicker, for the colder weather since my toes were taking longer and longer to get warm. But I didn't have time to mail the old ones back, so ended up with 4 pairs. And that's been a godsend. If I hate--and I do--putting on wet clothes in the cold of the morning, putting on wet socks is even worse. So far, I've been able to pull on dry socks every day, although my last pair is tomorrow morning. I also continue to waterproof my socks with Ziploc bags, now with the bicyclist ankle-velcro to help lock them in place. Do they work? No, the plastic rips pretty quickly and then my socks are getting soaked anyway. But I continue doing it: psychologically, it makes a huge difference when putting on my soaking wet shoes in the morning--the extra layer just helps--and while hiking, telling myself it's ok I'm stepping in these puddles and cold streams, because my feet are protected by waterproofing, that lie, even though I know it's a lie, is reassuring.

-- Sleeping bag and PJs. Must stay dry. If these ever get wet, I'm effectively dead. Otter once said, so long as your sleeping bag and sleeping clothes are dry, you can survive. What he didn't mention is that if they're wet, you won't. I'm very paranoid about my sleeping bag. Nowadays, I put it away before I put on my wet clothes, just to try and keep it dry. And as for my PJs, these include a thermal long sleeve, thermal underwear (i.e., long johns), dry socks (always worn), and a pair of dry underwear. Pulling these on at the end of the day is most gratifying feeling in the world, even though every time I worry because my body's wet when I do it and I want them to stay dry dry dry!

-- Wet clothes protocol. Otter advised sleeping with your wet clothes in your sleeping bag (in a waterproof sack of some sort, of course), because that way your clothes will be warm and wet, rather than cold and wet, in the morning. And his trick works and I do recommend it. Here's the thing: as soon as the clothes leave the sleeping bag, or you leave the sleeping bag, they'll start going cold again. So here's my protocol for the morning: when I decide to get out of the sleeping bag, that's when it starts. Get out of the sleeping bag, then immediately stuff it into its dry sack. Then grab clothes and start changing. They'll still be retaining at least some of that night's warmth. They'll cool pretty fast so suck up the suck and get them on fast!

And here are some practices of which I'm not so proud:

-- Food. I eat very little. While hiking, I don't want to stop, because once you stop moving, you start freezing. And then if you don't have an uphill coming up, it's a lot of work to get unfreezing. So I only eat out of the snacks in my hip belt. But my fingers usually don't work quite right, so it's hard to open those packages. And then there's the fact that I often need both hands on poles lest I slip and either badly twist or deeply sprain something, so I couldn't divert my hands even if I wanted to! As for at night, well:

-- Water. I drink very little. This is bad: I'm likely dehydrated. But stopping to collect water while on an exposed hillside, the wind whipping at you, pelting you with rain, and then furthermore stopping to filter it, that's just unpalpable to me. So I collect very little water, so I drink very little water. This also means that when I get to camp, usually there isn't enough water to make dinner, so I end up having a "dry" dinner: instead of cooking something warm, I just eat spoonfuls of peanut butter and Nutella, and then down a plain tortilla. And then eat a bag of gummy bears. This is because:

-- Dinner. You're supposed to eat 100 feet away from your tent, or barring that, at least in your vestibule. Well, when it's 40 degrees outside and raining, and I've already changed into my dry clothes to survive, I'll be damned if I'm going to change back into my wet clothes just to go out in the dark to eat. And my vestibule is filled with wet things, and the vestibule flap is pretty low: it's weighed down by rainwater. So I've reverted to eating inside my tent, just straight inside my tent. This is an exceptionally bad habit, and a dangerous one too. Don't do it at home, kids! But I do. But hence the dry dinner: it leaves no crumbs. And hence the gummy bears: they leave no crumbs. So at least no unwelcome furry visitors in the night!

-- Ursacks. Are supposed to be tied to a tree away from your tent. But, again, I'll be damned if I'm going outside to do that in the dark in the rain, and I'll be damned if I'm going to repeat that in the morning when it's also raining, just so I can retrieve my trash bag. So they stay, tied up, in my vestibule. I do try to point the opening ends outwards, so if Mr Mouse wants to try and get in, well, he doesn't have to go deep into my tent to find the ostensible opening.

-- Stove. I use as a heater inside my tent. This is exceptionally, exquisitely, bad. Don't do this. Don't be bad like me. But I do it. After toweling down the tent, I usually turn on the stove, heat the place up some, maybe evaporate off some wetness.. And I use the stove to try and dry off quick dry stuff, like my Buff, or bits of my rain gear, or even just the floor of the tent (somewhat, this doesn't really work though). And these are all exceptionally bad practices that should *not* be emulated. But it's 40 degrees out there, and I came up a southern California hiker so 40 degrees is *cold*! Turning on the stove does tend to create clouds inside the tent, though, so there is that to worry about.

-- Digging catholes. I hate the very idea of pooping in the rain. So since coming out of Leavenworth, I hadn't had a bowel movement in the woods yet. That ended today, during a brief lull in the rain when I was in the woods, and rushed off because finally my stomach said, I'm not holding it anymore. To be fair, my lack of eating and drinking has helped some: there's just not much in the stomach to start with! But so far I haven't had to poop while being rained on, and hopefully I won't have to! 

-- Hitting the head. If I have to go, in the middle of the night, I'm not leaving my tent. I'm not getting my dry clothes wet, and I'm not changing into my wet clothes either. So I'm just going out of my tent flap, into the unused vestibule side. It's not ideal, but I'm not going out there!

There are other rain protocols too that I've developed, but all are pretty developmental and still being worked out. I'd prefer to *not* have more chances to work them out, though. The sun is supposed to come out tomorrow, and I certainly hope so. Tomorrow morning is going to be tough, waking up and having everything still be wet, and then pulling on wet clothes after wet clothes after wet clothes. But in the afternoon, if I get a chance and the sun actually does come out--really comes out, not this peeking through blue pinholes in the sky thing--then I'm throwing a drying party and just laying everything out. Mostly my tent--that's most important--but also these wet pairs of socks. (Hopefully the clothes I'm wearing will already be dried/drying even as I'm wearing them.) But I will say that this storm has been tough, it's been challenging, and while I'm still in it, I'm also slowly failing. It's a game of attrition, really: each day hammers at my mental resolve, and eventually I know it'll break through and I'll be done. The only question is whether that will be before or after the storm has passed. I hope "after"--I ride it out--but I also know that "before" isn't some theoretical thing: if the storm lasts longer, I eventually will fold. Otter once said that you can adapt to anything. In theory I can adapt to this. But all it takes is one mistake, one oversight one morning, and my sleeping bag ends up wet, and then I'm done. And statistically, that's not a question of "if", it's a question of "when". So just one more day: I need to survive just one more day of this. Or maybe two if the forecast is off and the storm lingers too long into tomorrow. Maybe just survive two more days of this. And then, hopefully, the sun comes out and I can go back to worrying about being too hot!

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Some notes:

-- Milk Creek > Seasonal Creek > Dolly Vista Trail Camp > Suiattle River

-- Hmm, I think there was a waterfall at one point today? Or maybe at two points? They were pretty, I'm guessing?

-- Camping cohort: none, really. Technically, on the other side of the bridge there are a few people camped, and also on an island in the middle of the Suiattle River (how did they even *get* there?), but I'm pretty much alone on this side.