Adventure Film Festival, presented by Patagonia and Intrepid
Nov. 6-8, 2008
Boulder, Colorado
Learn more at: adventurefilm.org

By Ali Geiser

Action, adventure, ambition, anarchy; yeah, there was plenty of the hot and wild to go around at this year’s Adventure Film Festival, plenty of thrills and chills and big air and sketchy gear placements and ridiculously cold-looking white water. But the heart of AFF-now an international gig, with showing not only in its hometown of Boulder but Chamonix, France, and Chile as well-was filled with more than adrenaline.

In each and every wily big-screen ride lay a call to action. And if not every call was as spelled out as Allison Gannett’s “Global Cooling Ski Adventure Show,” which featured far more take-personal-responsibility-for-climate-change how and why than actual skiing, then they were certainly all as clear.  In Conflict Tiger we cringed and cried for both the starving poacher and the starving poached, as man and tiger fought over a disappearing environment. A Map for Saturday made us want to stop buying all this stuff from Ikea and live like gypsies, exploring and celebrating the beauty of the world. In its simplicity, Ice, Anarchy, and the Pursuit of Madness-a short film chronicling Steve House, Marko Prezelj, and Vince Anderson’s first ascent of K7 West-demonstrated effortlessly the incredibly light, fast, low-impact, and reverently respectful method that these elite alpinists embrace, leaving the mountain clean and pristine for the rest of us.

The films were all good, damn good, creating the problem of trying to see them all; obviously an impossibility, given that there were four venues and three days and overlapping showtimes (Yowza! Go Jonny Copp and the rest of you fabulous organizers and sponsors!). This kept me from getting blood clots in my legs, and kept the crowds from becoming overwhelming; instead they were full and friendly and warm, rife with hoots and hell-yeahs and fists in the air for bad-ass one-armed Willy hopping stumps on  his mountain bike (Armed for the Challenge); eyes wetting and silence thick and liquid before the image of a pink-clad two-year-old napping face-down in a black garbage bag, surrounded by mountains of methane-breathing trash (Recycled Life).

Take all these good people and powerful messages, throw in afterparties, intermission entertainment, door prizes (I won a Siggä-totally sick!-but someone else won Intrepid’s trip to Vietnam . . .damn. . .), film-making workshops, live interviews, and that fact that almost every show was introduced by its director and/or producer, and you’ve got a festival to make our little city of Boulder proud.

Ok, enough of the gushing. There was something missing from this festival, and the last adventure film festival I went to (Utah’s High Adventure Mountain Film Festival), and the one before that (Reel Rock Tour). Where are the bad-ass women??? If the ladies made a strong showing anywhere it was in the activism department, with Leslie Iwerks directing the brilliant Recycled Life, an Oscar-nominated documentary of the impoverished ‘guajeros’ who live off of the Guatemala City Garbage Dump; Conviction, starring three middle-aged nuns risking life and livelihood “to act out against war . . .  against the illegal, criminal actions of their [American] government;” and Everest E.R. taking us to Dr. Luanne Freer’s 17,500-foot medical clinic.

But where are my sisters in crampons? On mountain bikes? Banging down waterfalls in their kayaks and getting their running shoes soaked though with mud? Yeah, it’s fun watching to boys get all wild in their wingsuits, and I like it when they take their shirts off and are all sweaty and dirty, but enough of the testeserone already. I know that there are ladies out there with big ideas and big muscles-what say we give ‘em some love-turn the cameras on, hand over the grants and sponsorships, and help them show our mothers and daughters that adventure sports aren’t just for men. Get out there and do like the Adventure Film crew says and “Make Your Own Legends.” I’ll be watching for them next year.

This hike would have been impossible without all of the help I received from trail angels, and of course, my parents. Small acts of kindness go a long way and it was not just the scenery and nature, but the people that I met along the way that made this trip what it was. Thank you.

What’s next? Well, there is one final trail standing between me and the Triple Crown: the Continental Divide. I will graduate from college in December of 2010 and that spring I plan to hike the CDT, the backbone of America. The trail runs through New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho and Montana. Through grizzly and wolf country, through trailess wilderness that requires bushwhacking and I’m pretty excited.

I have never been one to immerse myself in tight social groups.  I love to have good girlfriends as much as the next gal, but something about the clique- the tight knit group of a number of girls who all do everything together all the time- never appealed to me.  I hated the idea that any time I called Sue, I had to also call Jane, who would then call Mary, and sure enough a quick trip out for lunch would soon become a 5 girl strong affair that took an hour just to decide on where to go.  But in the same fashion that I have always hated to be a part of a clique, I can’t stand other cliques that I am not a part of either because I hate to be left out of anything.  Even if I don’t want to be in the clique, I still always want to be invited to everything that mary, sue, and jane are doing.  It really is a catch 22 that I have struggled with for my entire social life.

But Saturday morning I found myself in the midst of a new click.  A running click.  I have been longing for a real running group for years.  Over the past few years I have worked my way through a few different running partners.  My original partner moved away.  Fortunately, she introduced me to another partner first.  Then I moved away.  Then my partner got too fast for me.  Then I met a new partner.  Then she stopped running.  Then she started again.  Then an old running partner moved back to town.  Suddenly I found myself overwhelmed with the feeling like I was cheating on everyone.  Any time I was running with someone, it meant I was not running with someone else.  But wait, I had an idea.  Could it be that we could actually all run together?  I gave it a shot, and sent out the email. 

So at 8am the past three Saturdays, we have actually managed some group runs.  Meshing all of our paces is a little tough, and some in the group are more concerned with good conversation, while others are more concerned with good personal times, but in the end, we’re all out there together and get to chat over latte’s when we are done. So now I am just hoping that as long as I can convince everyone to keep showing up, we can work out the details a little more each week because I am thrilled to finally have my very own clique that actually clicks.  There really is strength in numbers.  Knowing my friends are going to go for a run without me if I don’t get my butt out of bed- is enough to get me to put on my shoes.  Because who knows what I’ll miss if I’m not there!  But unlike so many other cliques, you are welcome to join us anytime.  And if you miss a day, we won’t take you off the phone tree either.

EarthTalkTM
From the Editors of E/The Environmental Magazine

Dear EarthTalk: Are there any electric bicycles or scooters that make for a nice cheap, green-friendly commute? – Sean Foley, Nashua, NH

Bicycle commuting has long been a symbol of greener living, and it is great exercise, too. But most people are probably not up to commutes much beyond five or 10 miles one-way in the interest of time and in not arriving at work too pooped (or sweaty) to pop.

Now a number of battery-powered two-wheelers are coming on the market that won’t get you your exercise but will get you from point A to B and back with minimal environmental impact. Consumers can start greening up their commutes on such vehicles for as little as $1,500 plus about 25 cents a day in electricity costs-not bad at all when you consider that a new car costs thousands of dollars more up front and chugs mass quantities off expensive and polluting gasoline.

Many of us conjuring up images of electric bikes and scooters may envision the finicky mopeds of the 70s and 80s, but today’s offerings are much improved and quite diverse.

Those who want to go fast but stay green should check out some of the electric scooters made by Miami-based EVTAMERICA. Each of the company’s three models tops out at a maximum speed of 45 miles per hour-respectable even on the highway. “People want to go at least 40 mph,” says the company’s co-owner, Fernando Pruna. “Everything built before could only do 25 or 30.”

Meanwhile, eGO of Somerville, Massachusetts makes electric bikes that can speed along at 25 miles per hour in “go fast” mode, but also have a “go far” mode, which trades off speed for distance (some 24 miles on a single charge). While eGO’s bikes may look diminutive, they are known for their strength. “Our bikes are powerful enough to tow a car,” says Kevin Kazlauskas, the company’s operations manager. “These are not toys, and customers aren’t treating them like toys.”

Another option might be an electric scooter made by Houston-based Veloteq. These scooters only go 20 miles per hour at top speed, but they can cover up to 50 miles on a single charge, which is more than enough distance to get most commuters back and forth to work, as long as they can avoid fast-moving highways along the way. A side benefit of the speed limitation on Veloteq’s vehicles is that they are typically exempt from licensing, registration and insurance regulations in most jurisdictions-yet another way to save money over those car drivers still mired in their 20th century car commutes.

Opting for one of these new scooters or bikes over a car commute will take a big bite out of your carbon footprint, but the future promises even greener versions. The lead-acid batteries that most models use today will soon be replaced with greener and more efficient varieties, lithium ion and nickel zinc being two of the more promising formats. These new fangled batteries will make the vehicles cost more, at least initially, but they will also trim bike weight significantly and provide a lot more distance per charge. And eGo is working on a model with a small solar array behind the seat to extend the bike’s range once its electric charge starts to run low.

CONTACTS: EVTAMERICA, www.evtamerica.com; eGO, www.egovehicles.com; Veloteq, www.veloteq.com.

GOT AN ENVIRONMENTAL QUESTION? Send it to: EarthTalk, c/o E/The Environmental Magazine, P.O. Box 5098, Westport, CT 06881; submit it at: www.emagazine.com/earthtalk/thisweek/, or e-mail: earthtalk@emagazine.com. Read past columns at: www.emagazine.com/earthtalk/archives.php.

By Margo McDonough

When my four kids were little, it was a good day when I could go to the bathroom without someone banging on the door. I solved all their problems, from skinned knees to bruised feelings. It was draining and exhausting but so very gratifying. There was no one better in the world than Mommy and they reminded me of that fact every day.

These days, the tables have turned. I’m the one knocking on closed bedroom doors, imposing time limits on texting and Wii, and insisting the kids take a break from their friends and spend time together as a family.

With the three younger ones, sports have been a way to stay connected. In winter, I sit in dank gyms at basketball games; in spring, at muddy soccer fields; and in summer, at sweltering baseball fields; cheering them on, and cheering them up if they lose.

But my oldest son, Ryan, lost interest in organized sports, and in his family, back in middle school. By the beginning of high school, the transformation was complete. He had morphed from a good-natured, mile-a-minute-talker who loved helping with the little kids into an angry young man who balked at sitting down for a family dinner. He wanted to argue about everything, from politics and international affairs to whether he should be allowed to stay in the house alone for a week. He even wanted to find some particle of a difference when I did agree with him.

Things got no better as the years went on. When the college brochures started clogging our mailbox, I realized that time was running out. We wouldn’t have many more chances to connect before Ryan left home; many more chances to mend this badly frayed relationship.

Casting about for an activity we could do together, I saw an ad for a half-marathon training team for a local charity. That was it — Ryan and I could help a good cause and in the process spend time together. I was so excited about the plan I had hatched that I rushed home to tell Ryan, somehow expecting he’d be just as excited.

“I dunno” was his response. But after telling him the half-marathon was in Phoenix, in January, Ryan’s eyes flickered. He hates East Coast winters as much as I do. He was in.

Our first workout wasn’t a resounding success – big, fat raindrops started falling before we had gone a mile and the lightening arrived soon after that. But we returned the next weekend. And the one after that. Throughout the fall and early winter, Ryan and I were regulars at the neighborhood park. Sometimes we only trained for an hour, as he had better places to go and better things to do. Most of the time, he would grunt one-syllable responses to my questions so after a while I’d shut up and we’d jog in silence.

But, still, he continued to show up every weekend.

And every now and again, there were cracks in the emotional wall that clung to Ryan just as tightly as his black T-shirts. He began to talk, about something in the news or a place he wanted to travel someday. And, at times, he even shared personal tidbits, about school or friends.

At home, Ryan continued to balk at joining in the dinnertime conversations and we had our usual battles over curfew. But neither of us brought these conflicts to our time together in the park.

In mid-January, we set off for Phoenix. Race day would eventually turn sunny and warm but at dawn, at the starting line, the air was crisp and the mood was tense. Runners stretched hamstrings and calves as they queued up in an endless line of corrals. Most wore top-of-the-line running shoes and fiercely determined looks. Ryan had on skateboard shoes. No surprise there; he insists they’re more comfortable than sneakers. What did surprise me with was his face, missing its scowl or bored gaze. Instead, he wore a smile. A genuine smile that lit up his eyes; those deep chocolate-brown eyes that used to look at me in adoration. At that moment, the guys up front would never catch me. I had already won this race.

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Sixteen weeks and 93 swim, bike, run, weight, and yoga workouts later I finished my first Olympic distance triathlon.  In typical bryn fashion, (the one where I need a goal clearly broken down into reasonable segments, on an excel spreadsheet and posted above my desk) I have been ticking workouts off the list all summer long.  For once I followed my plan a little more loosely knowing that what I was learning along the way was probably more valuable than what I started with- since I didn’t know much to begin with.  I added ocean swims around week 5 and Masters swim around week 10 and continued to let workouts, routes, schedules and training partners come and go as life and training merited.  Eventually, through a series of ups and downs I made it to race day.

There are many people (mostly my dad and husband) who would be ashamed to hear that I almost cried at the starting line.  There I was amongst the other white cappers in my heat, panicking.   Full fledged don’t-talk-to-me-I-am-focusing, where the hell are the buoys and how the hell am I expected to swim all the way out there, sort of panic.  It was a foggy, foggy morning and I learned that my new blue tinted goggles didn’t do much for cutting through a blanket of haze thick enough to hide to the fluorescent beach balls that were placed to signify our turn around points.  Somewhere between choking back an impending sobfest and taking my goggles on and off 60 times to de-fog them, thankfully, the gun went off and put me out of my misery.  I slowly worked my way into the water via the other timid back of the packers and found that as soon as my head was underwater, my nerves melted away.

There is an anonymity about being in the water that I have decided I love.  Someone may see me out there, but no one knows it’s me.  I can be as fast or slow as I want and nobody knows but me.  No one is watching thinking- bryn, pass that guy!  And not only does nobody recognize me, but I can’t tell who anyone else is either.  For the entire 36 minutes I had no idea where my friends were (are they ahead of me, or behind?) or who that guy in the heat behind me was, who already caught up to me (even with a 6 minute head start!)  I settled into my groove and just got to swim.  My watch was hidden under the sleeve of my wetsuit so I had no idea if it had taken me 30 minutes or 50, but when I got to the transition zone and saw that more than half of the bikes in my lane were still there, I called it a success.  Thanks to good ol’ Vic, my new masters coach, for once I actually finished comfortably in the middle.  Who knew after all this time, I could swim??

I’ll spare you the post mortem on the entire race, but the short version is I went on to have a successful bike ride- declared successful due to no flat tires or other bike malfunctions and never being left alone, the last poor sap on the course like I had imagined- and I had a run that put me securely back in my place of captain of team mediocre.  The race as a whole gets declared a success thanks to finishing 20 minutes faster than expected and actually having fun almost the whole time.  (I’ll brush the 302nd place finish out of 320 total competitors under the rug, for those of you wondering.)  And the crowd of friendly spectators was the best.  One of the many great perks to racing in your own town is having all of your friends on the course either racing themselves or out to watch.  (The other great perk is getting to ride your bike to the start line and not having to find a parking spot!)  At the end of the race as we all parted ways and cruised out of the parking lot sweaty, wet, filthy and exhausted, I just had to ask: so what are we doing next?  Three days later I have a race on the calendar, a plan in place, and a new running posse forming as we speak.  But I’m not starting the plan until next week.  This week, I am eating and sleeping and enjoying my success because at the end of the day, 2nd or 302nd, I get another notch in my athletic bedpost all the same.

Dinner in Stehekin, l to r, Dragon Ant, Stilts, Gopher, Sweet Fish, Alden, Lost (me), Truant, Hearsay

On Monday morning, I went to the post office in Stehekin to discover an empty package with my name on it.  Since my mail drop had been FedExed, it had been left in the lobby.  Someone had opened it up and taken all of the food.  All that was left were 2 letters.  One from my mother and one from my sister.  Luckily my friends came to my rescue.  Truant gave me some of her homemade trail mix, Sweet Fish gave me a couple of granola bars, Hearsay gave me an entire bag of chex mix and Dragon Ant gave me crackers.  I was able to get the rest of the food I needed from Stehekin’s convenient store.  The disappointment I felt from having been robbed was replaced by gratitude for having such good friends.

“Now this I have to see” the bus driver said as he handed me down my pack.  I had bought an apple pie at the bakery in Stehekin and was planning on packing it out.  “I bet you that thing doesn’t last one night.”  The bus driver joked.  I carefully placed the pie at the top of my pack.  It was surprisingly heavy and I knew the man was right.

The eight of us had taken the 11 o’clock bus back to the trail and hiked in an enormous conga line.  The trail took us past some delicious thimble berries which slowed us down a good deal.  We spotted a black bear enjoying the same tasty treat.  It was dusk by the time we made Rainy Pass.  We all pitched our tents and sat in a quiet circle enjoying dinner and yes, pie.

The following day brought snow up high and freezing rain in the lower elevations.  No one complained about the weather though.  The trip was almost over and we knew that in a few weeks we’d be stuck at desks and in classrooms and would give anything to be back here; back free in the freezing cold wintry wild.  So we savored every icy view, every windy blast and even every painful step.

Stilts, Dragon Ant, Alden and I had a plan.  There was rumored to be a Yurt hidden by the pass where we were planning on camping and we were determined to find it.  Dragon Ant spotted it from a distance and we took out our maps to figure out where it was.  After coming to something of an agreement we continued on.  It was about a ten minute walk off the trail but we found it just fine.

The Yurt was raised high above the ground and there were new wooden steps up to it.  Alden walked up first and we followed anxiously, knowing full well that the door might be locked.  It wasn’t.  About five minutes later a furious rain started beating down on the canvas roof.  We were very happy to be inside.  We ate dinner in our sleeping bags and slept soundly not quite believing that our walk was about to conclude.  25 miles stood between us and the Canadian border; only 25 miles until the end.

We awoke to a steady rain and joked about taking a zero day right there.  I started walking at 6:30 and the day flew by.  We all separated around lunch time.  I ended up eating down in a valley 7 miles from the border.  A man who was camped at a nearby lake wandered by.  He asked me where I was coming from.  “Mexico” seemed like a million years ago.  “You’re early” he said.  I laughed to hear those words.  Down south I had continuously been told “you’re late” since I had started half a month after most hikers do, so this was good to hear.

The final seven miles of the trail were all down hill and down I went.  After about two hours I saw a group of four heading south “the border’s just around the corner” one of them said.  I smiled and I ran.  Down around the corner and there it was.  In a valley next to a long straight clear cut.  Canada.  The line I had been hiking towards for 109 days.  The sight I had been dreaming of since Mexico.  Stilts was there waiting and we gave each other a victorious high five.  Just like at the Mexican border, there is a PCT monument at the Canadian Border.  I sat down on my sleeping mat across from the structure and stared at it for a little while, trying to absorb the fact that we had just walked from Mexico to Canada.  It is difficult to believe that trail that took me through the brutal desert heat, up the impossibly tall passes, and through the raging river fords was this same quiet trail that I sat by now.  Dragon Ant, and then Gopher and finally Alden came.  Big smiles.  A few tears.  We took pictures and lingered.

We hiked into Manning Park that evening and had one last dinner together.  We then celebrated our accomplishment with microwaved s’mores at the lodge.  Saying goodbye is not easy.  No one ever said it would be.  After you cross the Canadian Border, things change quickly.  We were all rocketed back to our places in the world.  Back to be carpenters and lawyers and students.  The homesickness begins to fade after a little while.  You get used to sleeping in a bed and getting back to your old schedule.  You can take comfort in your memories and in the fact that for 4 months you lived.  And you lived deep.

Damn skippy I’m eating vegan pizza at 7:51 AM MST! After my AM, self-imposed, kick-butt sessions, I sometimes indulge in faux cheesy goodness and take in a couple pieces of pie.

Boulder is one of most healthy and active cities in the country and I truly enjoy being a member. Yes - I occasionally eat pizza in the morning, and come to think of it ice cream too, but at the core, I am a health nut. I have a regular exercise routine and feeding schedule. I look to these chiseled, toned, determined bodies around me for inspiration. This community runs, cycles, climbs and swims right past fast foods and eats spinach, apples, edamame and sustainable fish at the organic grocer.

As I’m about to pledge my undying loyalty to this great city and launch into a rendition of “What a Wonderful World”, I discover this super-star community that breeds Olympic athletes is not the Eden I so blindly hoped for.

Meet Boulderite Diane Israel; she’s a former triathlete and marathoner. I recently caught her speaking on Colorado Matters and was dismayed by what I heard. I expected Israel to sing praises for the mile high training grounds. Israel instead spoke about exercise bulimia - a rare psychological disorder in which a person purges through an excessive amount of physical activity. It is a disorder that effects many of the athletes in Boulder. Israel documents this condition in her film Beauty Mark.

Distorted body image is not a new topic. It has been simultaneously belabored and encouraged by the media for the past however many years. The new concern that Israel points out is that filter we applied solely to the print, video, and film world now expands into every day life. The race to be the fastest, thinnest, best, athlete in Boulder can so consume the mind it turns into a detrimental lifestyle.

As the walls of athletic inspiration begin to crash down around me, I realize that I run, cycle, climb and swim because it’s fun. I may never run an ultra-marathon. I may never kayak in Malaysia. But I will continue to be motivated by those around me that do. I will add an extra mile on my run. I will kayak somewhere in Colorado. And, most importantly, I will continue to eat that occasional slice of AM pizza and finish with a side of ice cream. That is a breakfast of champions.

A couple of days after the heat waves’ burst, the rain returned.  Cold rain.  Hand numbing rain.  Luckily I was closing in on Steven’s Pass so I was able to continue along cheerfully with the knowledge that by night fall, I would be dry.  I was so eager to get into town that I practically ran for the last few miles.  It took me about 20 minutes to get a ride down.

There is an Inn in the town of Skykomish but thru-hikers rarely stay there thanks to the hospitality of the Dinsmores.  Jerry and Andrea Dinsmore have been taking hikers into their home for years.  They let complete strangers use their shower, eat at their table and sleep above their garage.  One phone call and a quick ride later brought me to this heaven.  Their hospitality was overwhelming.  The second I walked into the door, Andrea showed me where I could find a clean set of clothes so that I could put mine in the wash, and then let me take a hot shower.  When I came out, warm and dry, she heated up a delicious bowl of chili and toast.  I could not eat half of the food she put in front of me.  A few hours later Alden, Stilts, Truant and Sweet Fish along with Hearsay had showed up.  We stayed up late sitting in the Dinsmore’s armchairs, laughing and listening to the rain beat against the garage roof.

The weather report for the next two days was very disheartening.  Jerry Dinsmore told us we’d be crazy to hike out now.  That was all the encouragement we needed to make the decision to rest there for two more days.  We played cards, feasted on barbequed food and cup cakes that Sweet Fish made.  Another thru-hiker, Dragon Ant, showed up that afternoon as well.  We all went on a road trip into town to see a movie and enjoy dessert at Dairy Queen.  Being in a town is like being on vacation for a thru-hiker.  Cars, running water, and thermostats seem like incredible luxuries but after two days of rest we still found ourselves itching to get back to the woods.

The following day we were off by 6:30am.  It was still raining and we were all a little sad to be leaving the friendly Dinsmores, but the weather report promised an end to the bad weather by 11am.   We hiked in a cold, wet conga line.  At 10:30 Dragon Ant looked at his watch “only a half an hour of rain left” he said.  It did not stop raining until 7pm.  We covered 30 miles with only one break and camped by an alpine lake.  I was too restless for much sleep and ended up setting off the second a hint of light appeared in the east.

Glacier Peak Wilderness is something of a challenge for thru-hikers.  A couple of years ago, heavy rains devastated the area.  There are miles and miles of blow downs and an enormous washout by Milk Creek.  In the past, hikers have taken a re-route, but while we were staying at the Dinsmores, we were informed that following the original PCT was a better bet.  It is shorter and the forest service has fixed up all but twenty miles of trail.  So, we decided to take the original route without any idea of the adventure that was in store for us.

Dragon Ant, Stilts, Alden and I had plans to pitch our tents at a site about a mile before Milk Creek.  What we did not know, was that this area had also been carried away by the washout.  You can imagine my surprise when I arrived at the washout around dusk and the trail dropped off the edge of the world.  Dragon Ant and I had gotten a bit ahead and hadn’t seen Stilts and Alden since lunch so we made a decision to follow the washout down to the river which we knew the trail would cross.  And so we continued down, down, down.  Had it not been dusk, we probably would have been able to see that this was a bad idea.  The washout became increasingly steep and wet until it was completely impassable.  We started bush whacking.

Devils club.  I cannot identify many plants, but this one I will not soon forget.  Its little thorns tore at us as we fell through the dark.  The growth was so thick that it took us forever just to move ten feet.  We desperately scraped our way through, taking turns leading.  After all light was completely gone and coming to a close call by a precipice, we decided we’d have to make camp.  Luckily we found a tiny clearing.  The ground was not flat but there was just enough space for us to lay our sleeping mats out.  “We can make it a bit homier” Dragon Ant said, and we pushed aside a few sticks and pine cones.  Neither of us slept very well that night.  We were worried about having trouble finding the trail again but we were both very thankful to have company.  We tried to make light of the situation.  “They’ll have to add this new established campsite to the guide book . . . only for the hardy.” Dragon Ant joked.  We noticed the stars and did not talk about the predicament we were in.

The sun woke us up early the next morning and we discovered navigation to be much easier in the daylight.  We got closer and closer to the river and then stumbled upon a strange sight.  Footprints.  Not the sort of thing you’d expect to see in the middle of nowhere.  They led us to a rough trail that went straight to the river and up to an abandoned forest service tent.  A few minutes of upstream scrambling finally brought us to the trail.  We were so relieved and happy we gave each other triumphant high fives, inadvertently waking up the occupants of two tents we had not spotted.  It was Stilts and Alden!  Who had had similar misadventures the previous night but had finally made it down to the river just after midnight.  We were all very relieved to be re-united.

The rest of the day was a struggle through overgrown trail and over enormous blow downs, some of which were so large, you wouldn’t have been able to see a person standing on the other side.  Our Glacier Peak Wilderness experience culminated with the Suattle River Crossing.  The bridge over this river had been wiped out two years earlier and the only way to cross the rapid white waters is to balance over a blow down.  We all made it alive and were very glad to have the worst behind us.

After such a brutal section of trail we all had the same idea in our heads but Stilts was the first to say it out loud “lets just go. . . you know, all the way to town.”  It was dinner time and we still had about 15 miles until the road but all we wanted was to be sitting in Stehekin’s famous bakery, resting our poor bodies and feasting.  And so we walked into the night.  The trail was nearly all gradual down hill and we flew through the dark.  The first hour of night hiking is always the same.  Exhilarating.  Your senses come alive because you need them.  But then the second hour comes and you start to tire and by the third you are more of a machine than a human being.  You are too tired to think and your feet automatically take you where you need to go.

We stopped at the last campsite before the road and fell asleep instantly.  The next morning the ranger at the station in Stehekin gave us a ride to the bakery where our dreams were fulfilled.  Stilts and Dragon Ant had one of nearly everything the bakery was selling and I ate a cinnamon roll as big as my face.  It was a great start to a great day.

Many thru-hikers praise Stehekin as their favorite trail town.  It can only be reached by foot or ferry and all that you can find there is a lodge, a convenient store, and of course, the bakery.  Sweet Fish, Truant, Alden and Hearsay made it to town that afternoon.  It was a Sunday so we had to wait to pick up our mail drops from the post office the next day.  Stilts and Dragon Ant had disappeared for a little while and when they returned they said “Lost, we have a surprise for you.”  And around the corner walked my good friend Gopher, who I had met while hiking the Appalachian Trail last year.  I knew that he was hiking the PCT this year but he had started with the herd, ½ a month before me so I was not expecting to see him.  It was wonderful to see an old friend.  All 8 of us enjoyed dinner together at the lodge that evening.  The main topic of conversation was what everyone would be doing after the trail.  Butterflies were in our stomachs.  There were only 3 days left until we reached Canada.

Soon after Goat Rocks, the trail plummets down to White Pass, the next re-supply point.  It is a tiny gas station that accepts hiker packages free of charge.  Stilts, Alden, Sweet Fish, Truant and I all arrived there around the same time.  We rummaged through our mail drops, traded a few items, and stuffed our empty stomachs with gas station food.  Somehow we ended up spending a total of five glorious hours there.  We left feeling full and rested.

Washington surprised us with a heat wave over the next few days.  We sweated our way past tourists joking that we could “smell the public coming”- we could smell their laundry detergent that is.  I’d rather not know their impression of us as it had been well over a week since any of us had had the opportunity to bathe.

The night before arriving at Snoqualmie, I had plans to camp at a Weather Station that, according to my guide book, had running water and camping.  Sadly, it disappointed me on both accounts.  It had been a long day so I decided to continue on and camp on the first semi flat piece of land I could find.  I ended up sleeping on the middle of a hillside power line clear cut.  Stilts, who was also exhausted, joined me at this sideways campsite and a little while later, Sweet Fish and Alden appeared.  We started discussing plans for town the next day and it was quickly decided that we would split a room at the lodge in Snoqualmie.  We exchanged our “real” names so that the first to arrive could leave a message for the rest at the front desk.  It was an odd moment.  Sitting there in the dark, learning the names of people I had been hiking with for over a week.  Friendships grow fast on the trail.  Social barriers collapse and maybe a few manners along with them but you learn who you are and know the people traveling on the trail with you for who they are; profession, age, and education aside.