On Monday, July 25th at 6 AM, I embarked on my final journey to summit Thurston Peak. I wore a lighter pack, which was only filled with two liters of water, sunscreen, two granola bars, and some papers with directions. I wore my gym clothes, as they were lighter, and in a risky action- I wore thin moccasins instead of hiking boots as I attributed my boots to the problems I was having on the descent.
I had reached the switchbacks around the hour mark, and there were many of them. Looking at others’ GPS records, one could not tell how many there really are - but they number greatly. I would not be surprised if there were more than a hundred. I was listening to various podcasts on my phone which seemed to pass the time. It was claimed that a ‘moderate’ hiker could summit in four hours. I was banking on five for the ascent, and three for the way down.
Adjectives cannot do the switchbacks justice. They were brutal, but my moccasins held up, and my feet felt great. I made note of a few milestones, The two fallen trees, the dead elk, and an area I named, ‘The Colosseum’ as it contained many large stones. I ran into a spring, fashioned with PVC pipe for hikers, and decided not to fill up the rest of my pack with its water. This was a mistake, and I thought it might cost me at one point. I arrived at the infamous ‘iron stove’ camp site which was directly below a scary looking peak called "Chinscraper."
 |
| Chinscraper |
I had read many accounts of Chinscraper, and assumed there was an easy path around it. I could not find such a path. One account read of some trees with markings, but they could not be located. I was forced to scramble up Chinscraper. I am not a rock climber, and this was the worst part of the entire journey for me as I almost fell trying to ascend this peak. I kept reaching for rocks, only find them too loose. For this alone, I do not recommend this hike at all for the average adventurer. Once I was atop this false peak, I had assumed that I was 90% of the way to Thurston. I was wrong. I now believe that I was only 70% of the way to the summit.
After contouring on the mountainside for another hour, I ran into another spring. At this point, my pack was empty of water. I filled up. I was very fortunate. The mountain tops seemed to unfurl as I edged closer and closer. I ran into another hiker who I assumed had just summited Thurston. Believing I was close the the summit, my only questions were about descending Chinscraper, and if there was an easier route. He told me there were other routes, but they were not easy. I pushed through until I reached the top of the mountain side.
 |
| View of Francis Peak from Thurston Peak |
Looking at my GPS, I noticed Thurston was the immediate peak above me. It looked like it was 300-400 feet. There were cairns, and a faint trail. Unfortunately, I had lost the trail and wandered to the scary ridge on the east. I scrambled up Thurston and took a long break about 100 feet from the top. For some reason, my body wasn’t handling the altitude as well as I had hoped. I scurried the final 100 feet and took some pictures next to the marker. I had “knocked the bastard off!” as Edmund Hillary once exclaimed. It was a sobering moment.
 |
| The marker at Thurston Peak |
Descending the 300-400 feet itself was easy after I had found the trail and cairns. I began to descend the main trail wondering when I would reach the second spring. My thin shoes now had holes in them, and my feet were hurting. After a painstakingly long time, I reached the spring, filled up my pack, and journeyed back to Chinscraper which I was extremely worried about. The contouring seemed like it would never end, and I was trying to convince myself that 99% of the remaining trail would be down hill. The trail kept curving uphill, despite my earlier recollection, and it had become mentally fatiguing. I arrived at Chinscraper, sat on a large rock, and enjoyed a rare gust of cold wind. I was terrified, and said a prayer or two. Wishing I was at home with my family would become a common theme for the remainder of the adventure.
I slid down the worst of Chinscraper on my butt, as I am tall man without a low center of gravity. I almost lost control, but would grab onto weeds and rocks to slow my fall. One rock would cut my wrist open, not badly, but enough to sting. I had no first-aid kit. I was ill-prepared for reasons of weight, and it would affect me. I applied sunscreen every few hours, but I still found myself burned. I rested at the stove site for about ten minutes. Sitting on a hard log was the best relief of the entire trip.
Further descending, I ran into the final spring and filled my pack for the last time. My feet were killing me, but I had nearly six miles left on hard rocky ground to go. While I could write a book about these miles, as they were the hardest I’ve ever walked, I will do my best to condense it for the reader. Every mile was filled with screams of agony, and prayers to keep me alive. My water ran out among these remaining miles and I began to be dehydrated. Finding shade every now and again would prompt my mind with a decision. If I continued to take breaks, it would become difficult to get back on my feet. At one point, I wrapped my socks in such a manner that would provide more padding, but this did not seem to provide a use. My GPS would tell me that I wasn’t even close to the last milestone.
I began to get lightheaded, many times, but would think of home and push through. Hours later, and in a great deal of agony, I reached the final milestone which told me that I had two miles remaining. I walked, approximately at one mph or less, to the old bridge. I poured the creek water on my body, and even drank of its questionable content. Giardia or death, if those are my choices, I’m choosing giardia every time. While I thought this new relief would last me, it didn’t. For some reason, my feet were in more pain than ever before. I found a branch that I crafted and used as a walking stick. It was flimsy, but it probably reduced the weight on my right leg by fifteen pounds. My calves were spent, but I walked the remainder of the trail to the parking lot where there was a drinking fountain.
I drank its warm water, and sat down on a bench nearby and reflected for several minutes. By this point, some of my toes were black, one of the toenails was removed, and the entire length of my feet were covered in blisters. I was grateful to be alive. It took me nearly six hours to ascend, and seven to descend. I took the next few days off of work as I literally could not walk for three days. Two weeks have passed, blisters are almost gone, and half of my toenails have fallen off. I’m a lot more somber, and appreciative to be alive, but eager to get back and train smarter. Other mountains will have to wait until next year.
I slid down the worst of Chinscraper on my butt, as I am tall man without a low center of gravity. I almost lost control, but would grab onto weeds and rocks to slow my fall. One rock would cut my wrist open, not badly, but enough to sting. I had no first-aid kit. I was ill-prepared for reasons of weight, and it would affect me. I applied sunscreen every few hours, but I still found myself burned. I rested at the stove site for about ten minutes. Sitting on a hard log was the best relief of the entire trip.
Further descending, I ran into the final spring and filled my pack for the last time. My feet were killing me, but I had nearly six miles left on hard rocky ground to go. While I could write a book about these miles, as they were the hardest I’ve ever walked, I will do my best to condense it for the reader. Every mile was filled with screams of agony, and prayers to keep me alive. My water ran out among these remaining miles and I began to be dehydrated. Finding shade every now and again would prompt my mind with a decision. If I continued to take breaks, it would become difficult to get back on my feet. At one point, I wrapped my socks in such a manner that would provide more padding, but this did not seem to provide a use. My GPS would tell me that I wasn’t even close to the last milestone.
I began to get lightheaded, many times, but would think of home and push through. Hours later, and in a great deal of agony, I reached the final milestone which told me that I had two miles remaining. I walked, approximately at one mph or less, to the old bridge. I poured the creek water on my body, and even drank of its questionable content. Giardia or death, if those are my choices, I’m choosing giardia every time. While I thought this new relief would last me, it didn’t. For some reason, my feet were in more pain than ever before. I found a branch that I crafted and used as a walking stick. It was flimsy, but it probably reduced the weight on my right leg by fifteen pounds. My calves were spent, but I walked the remainder of the trail to the parking lot where there was a drinking fountain.
I drank its warm water, and sat down on a bench nearby and reflected for several minutes. By this point, some of my toes were black, one of the toenails was removed, and the entire length of my feet were covered in blisters. I was grateful to be alive. It took me nearly six hours to ascend, and seven to descend. I took the next few days off of work as I literally could not walk for three days. Two weeks have passed, blisters are almost gone, and half of my toenails have fallen off. I’m a lot more somber, and appreciative to be alive, but eager to get back and train smarter. Other mountains will have to wait until next year.
0 comments:
Post a Comment