Omens. Signs. Portents. Normally I don't believe in such things. But two things happen as we pack up the car camp at the trailhead and shoulder into our packs. First, Sean goes to roll up his thermarest and discovers that his dog has chewed off the nozzle. We laugh but sleeping on a tiny mat is bad enough. Sleeping on the ground is ten times worse. Then Ari buckles his pack and the plastic buckle snaps. Not good. Cinching the hip belt tight is the only way to make that weight ride on your hips instead of your shoulders. Luckily I find a substitute from my day bag. As we start hiking up the trail, thunder rumbles in the distance.
Energy low. Light fading. Storm moving in. The trail veers away from the creek and starts to switchback up the mountainside. Not good. Haven't seen a good campsite in a while. But maybe if we push on, we'll get lucky.
I push on ahead of the rest, eager to stake a spot for the night. But the creek below slowly becomes a chasm and the trail drifts upwards. It's getting even more rocky. When the trail switchbacks across a huge talus slope, I stop. Take off the pack. And boot up the mapping software on my phone. The news is not good. The trail will not meet back up with the creek for quite some time. And we will need the water. Thunder rumbles close by.
I wait for my two hiking companions and break the news to them. We have to make a decision. Ari votes to push on. Do the extra miles. Sean wants to bushwhack down the bottom of the chasm and scramble up to an open spot on the other side. I think we should just backtrack a little to the last bit of level ground. We spend too much precious time debating. The thunder rumbles closer. We're all beat so, in the end, the easiest choice was the sellable one. We backtrack to a marginal little campsite in the spruce.
But what to do first. It's beginning to sprinkle but there's a lot of work to be done. Tents need to be set up, clothes need to be changed, fire built, fish cleaned and dinner prepped. Since everyone is completely out of water, I decide that is my first priority. I take everyone's water bottles and water filter and blaze a path to the bottom of the chasm. Following game trails, I come to a wonderful little spot between two little waterfalls that has a flat ledge of rock sticking out into current.
“This is perfect!” Ari exclaims as he follows and finds me with more water containers. Indeed it would be on a sunny day. But the little hollow is dark and chilled and cold mist from the waterfalls and the rock walls makes the place like a little refrigerator. I am still in my hiking clothes—shorts and a t-shirt and, post exertion, in a vulnerable state. I am immediately chilled. Filtering water is a kind of slow and tedious process. It begins to rain. By the time we are three quarters done, I am shaking uncontrollably. “We should go get our rain gear,” Ari suggests. “Let's just get this done,” I chatter.
By the time, we finish and climb back to camp, it is raining heavily. And I am in a bad state. The cold has taken over. Not only am I shaking so bad that I have no motor coordination but my mind is freezing up too. All I can think about is getting into my warm dry sleeping bag, but I can't quite seem to remember how to put my tent together. I am on the verge of panic. I am in serious trouble. I scream in frustration. That brings Sean over to help me pitch my tent.
It is coming down. By the time we get the rainfly on, the inside of the tent is good and wet. I don't care. I hurriedly toss my sleeping bag and my sack of dry clothes into the tiny tent and crawl in. The tent is the size of a coffin. Trying to get out of my wet clothes into my dry polypropylene long underwear and into the mummy bag in my shaking state in that confined space takes a long time and requires feats of advanced yoga that seem impossible. But I finally do it. I pull the hood over my face and lay there shaking, but dry.
Slowly the sound of the rain and my chattering teeth fade and are replaced by the sounds of camp coming to life: the hiss of a camp stove, the crackle of a fire and the subdued murmur of conversation in the twilight. Someone offers me a cup of hot tea. “I still need a minute,” I tell them. Inside the sleeping back I am finally warming up. As my brain becomes fully functional again, I reflect on my mistake. I should've pitched the tent first and gotten into the warm clothes. I know better. First rule of the backcountry is always put on clothes BEFORE you need them. Alas, I haven't done this for a while. And I'm a bit rusty.
More than a little chagrined and embarrassed I finally pry myself out of my bag and join my comrades around the campfire and the evening meal.
I don't sleep well on backpacks. So I lie awake and listen to it rain. And rain. And rain. I can hear the wind come down the valley sounding like a jet airliner. Followed by a heartier downpour of rain. Some time late, I feel a drip on my forehead. Then some more. Not good. I scrunch down deeper into the tent to escape the Chinese water torture and hear the unwelcome sound of sloshing, The foot of my sleeping bag is sitting in water. Really not good. I take the garbage bag I always wrap my sleeping bag in and fit it around the foot of my bag. I curl my feet up even as I scrunch my head down. My fetal position gives me a couple of square feet of dryness in the swampy mess.
The rain continues relentlessly, endlessly, impassive and unforgiving. My dry patch shrinks. I have to pee. But I don't want to give up my tiny stake of warmth and dryness. Finally I have no choice. Into the rain I go in my stocking feet. While I'm out, I try to tighten the rain fly, tighten the stakes. I wriggle back into the tent thoroughly damp, feet wet and demoralized. I try to recreate my sanctuary to little effect. “Please stop raining,” I think. “Please, please stop raining.” A useless plea to the impassive gods. By the end of the night, the only thing keeping me out of the water is my air mattress—a raft in a pond of water. As the darkness slowly lightens and the hint of dawn fills the tent, I sense the rain begin to slacken. It's subtle at first. Then I'm sure of it. The rain is beginning to ease. I hear sounds of people moving about the camp. Ah, survival.
Turns out, Ari had a similar night. Sean approaches the “kitchen” bags under his eyes and a haunted expression on his face. “I'm not going any farther today,” he croaks. We shake our heads. “We're in trouble.” We explain the situation and agree there's no choice but to retreat. Try to hike back out to the vehicles in a day. There at least we can sleep in the trucks with the heaters on. Once the decision is made we make coffee and stand around (there's no where to sit that isn't sopping wet) and commiserate. With a hot cup of coffee in hand and a break in the rain, it's easy to laugh at our predicament. We recount our emotions during the night and laugh in astonishment as we listen to thundering sound of rockslides in the valley around us.
As we pack our soggy, heavy gear, the weather moves back in and we trudge down the trail in full retreat in a steady rain. My cheap raincoat almost immediately wets out. Gonna be a long day.
Yep, pretty much how I remember mountain backpacks....
