After a day of rest, I’m up early and raring to go. I hike out of the river drainage where I’d camped and four miles later drop my pack to do 25 pushups and 100 sit-ups. I’ve been walking this trail since early May, it’s now almost the end of June, and my lower body is rock solid but I’m losing weight and tone in my upper body. Maybe this will help. At Sally Keyes Lake, I meet three weekenders sitting on folding chairs set in front of spacious tents. I have breakfast at the lake and then “sally” forth to Seldon Pass, which even with a deep layer of snow is an easy one.
I take pictures of Marie Lake and of the snow-covered peaks beyond. I don’t take another picture for 300 miles.
I walk along the western shore of frozen Marie Lake until the snowy trail turns to mud. The sun is warm, and the sky is that intensely beautiful cobalt-blue again. I feel completely at home in these mountains; every ounce of my thinning body is filled with joyous anticipation. I walk a few miles and reach a fast-moving creek that gives me pause but not worry. How many creeks have I forded in the past ten days? 30? 50? Some have been wide, some narrow, all of them cold. This is just another creek. Upstream the water narrows and smashes over giant rocks, I can’t cross there. Downstream the water widens and deepens.
I grab two branches to use as walking sticks and go back to where the trail dips into the creek. I face upstream, take a deep breath, relax, and sidestep into the water. I take a second step and am knocked off my feet and swept facedown into the current. I’m stunned. Is this really happening? The current is powerful. My legs bang up against rocks as I’m pushed swiftly along. My pack is clipped tightly at both my hip and chest. They say it’s best to have your pack unclipped when fording, because if you get sucked in it’s easier to release an unclipped pack and swim to shore. But because my bear canister, strapped to the top of my pack, throws me off balance I always keep my pack clipped.
At first, I’m calm. I’m moving fast and getting whacked by rocks, but I’m calm. I have no control and get sucked into deep water. As this is happening, items from my pack float rapidly by: my hat, a tube of sun block, my bandana. I remain calm and think, “This is okay. Things are okay. I’ll just get out.” I try as hard as I can to swim to shore but can’t. The current is too strong, and rocks keep smacking me. After several futile attempts I think, “Oh crap. This is serious.” My mind spins as I remember a time long ago, when my friend Josh and I were hiking above Yosemite Falls and he got swept in. I was standing on a bridge watching as he leaned into the creek to get water and was pulled in and pushed down to the edge of the falls. Just before going over, he clung onto a rock and that saved his life.
Remembering this, I furiously grab at rocks and manage to wrap my arms around one, but it’s slimy and the current is so forceful I can’t hold on, not even for a moment. The current pushes me down the creek very fast and I get more and more banged up. I think of my friend again and about how he said that if you ever get caught in a strong current, don’t fight it, swim to the side. I try this but it doesn’t work, at least not right away. I keep trying to get to the side of the creek, until suddenly a fierce physical determination takes over my body. It’s a kind of will I’ve never known before. With all my body, and all my heart, and all the energy that has ever passed through me in this lifetime, I will myself out of the water. I don’t know whether I say the words out loud, or if it’s just one giant shout inside my head, but I keep repeating with deep body force: “I want to live! I want to live! I want to live!” I see a thin yellow willow branch reaching out to me like a long bony finger and grasp it. I cling onto it for dear life as water rages around me. God bless the meager-looking willow branch! That thin, spindly finger is much stronger than it appears. I hang on, and when I trust that it can handle my weight, I haul myself out the water. I’m pretty beat up but alive, and although most of my body is battered, luckily, I did not hit my head.
My body heaves and sobs uncontrollably as I empty my pack on the small island I’ve landed upon. Everything is soaked. I didn’t wrap anything because the creek didn’t look like that much of a threat. My camera is dead. I pull out the memory card, hoping it will survive. My phone is dead, and my watch has stopped. I sob but keep moving. I lay out clothes and gear to dry on rocks, bushes, and tree branches. I start shaking and inspect the cuts and bruises on my legs, back, hip and chest. There’s a gash on my left shin with a lump that’s growing before my eyes into a swollen little mountain. I’m very upset. I should eat something, nourish my body. I eat a few trail bars and drink a half-liter of water. I take ibuprofen, put antibacterial cream on the gash, and find a patch of snow near a tree. I pile snow onto my swollen leg and tie it in place with a shirt. My back hurts. I lie on the snow thinking the cold will help ease the pain and reduce the swelling that I feel building near my lower spine. I elevate both legs by leaning them against a tree trunk. It’s 2:00 pm. I stay like this for the next three hours, packing and re-packing snow on my body, keeping my legs elevated, eating, and drinking.
I didn’t come to these mountains for this. I didn’t come here to risk my life or to hurt my body. I haven’t seen anyone since the happy weekenders I met before breakfast. It’s time to figure out what to do next. The best way to get off the island and the shortest distance to shore will bring me back to where I started. You’ve got to be kidding? All this and I don’t even get to be on the other side? Cautiously, I step into the water and make my way to shore. It hurts to walk but at least it’s possible. I walk slowly downstream to see if I can find a safe place to cross. I walk for an hour and find nothing. I walk upstream as far as I can but am stopped by the same thundering water that stopped me before.
Usually I stealth camp, but tonight I put my tent right out in the open, beside the trail. I want to be seen in case someone comes by. I tell myself that I won’t mention what happened to just anyone. Personalities on the Pacific Crest Trail are a microcosm of personalities in the real world. There are people you instantly bond with and people you instinctively steer clear of. If some good people show up and we cross the creek together, then I’ll continue hiking. I don’t have high hopes for this happening. I can go for days in the Sierras without seeing a soul, so I create an exit plan. I’ll turn around in the morning and hike back to Muir Trail Ranch, where I started from yesterday. Fom there I’ll hike out of the mountains and go home. I’ve had enough.
I have nothing to prove. 869 miles is a good enough hike.
I eat dinner and tend to my wounds. All night I listen to the noisy creek. It sounds hostile and unkind. I’m angry at it. I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want the lovely sound of energetic water, a sound I’ve always adored, to now be something I bristle against, rage at, and avoid, but that water hurt me. It nearly stole my life. All night long I lie inside my tent aching and sore, trying in vain to make peace with Bear Creek.
An excerpt from:
Tamed. A City Girl Walks from Mexico to Canada on the Pacific Crest Trail
Between 2008 and 2013, Anne spent her summers thru-hiking over 5,000 miles of
insanely gorgeous earth. She left city life behind a few years later for a small patch of New England woodland earth which she wild tends and adores. She wrote a book about her experience thru-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail and has been published in several journals, including Unleash Lit. She blends her woodsy life with frequent trips to Boston, her hometown.