Project Eveningland

7/28/2023 Friday

Today was such a varied adventure, with an opportunity to develop my storm dodging skills.

I woke at 7:10 and set about getting ready. The sun had made surprising progress and was only just below the hill on the other side of the narrow, deep valley in which I had sheltered from the rain last night. I luxuriated in the morning warmth. Storms, shtorms—you can’t drag yourself on trail at 3AM just to avoid some rain. Well, maybe you can once in a while.

So I started hiking out of my valley feeling not so much sore as tired and unmotivated. I tried drinking a nice refreshing bottle of filtered creek water with a liquid IV mix and it did help. It lifted my spirits anyway.

I spent some time thinking about places on the AT I’d like to see again. I imagined sitting at Standing Indian Shelter on a sunny February morning. I suppose I’m dreaming of the first trip—the fight, you know? You never really get that again, that first AT struggle. I suppose that’s a consolation too: no matter the results of that first hike, you are a different person.

Once I surmounted the saddle—it took forever—the scenery went from great to spectacular.

The pika around my campsite as I am writing this are chirping. They sound just like a smoke alarm detector with low battery (ed: I think the “fire alarm low battery” calls were actually marmots, which were also present in abundance).

The first vista to really strike me today was a vast bowl with a series of rock spires—just the kind of thing you’d see in a movie about the Wild West. They stand high and proud, unreachable. The bowl swoops down in gentle gradations of green, yellow, and brown. The colors only look gradual because the thing is so fucking massive.

Between the bottom of those slopes, and me, lays the floor of the valley, covered in thick, impenetrable willow (the shrub kind). Creeks flow unseen, though their rushing force can be heard beneath. Very mysterious. It must be a cold place, with all the rainwater and snowmelt.

Far, far above, small cornices of snow hang onto remote ledges. Are those small caves? They maybe be outlets for springs. Below each lies a deep wash cut into the slope. The caves look like the kind of place you could find the body of George Mallory or similar.

Clouds began to coalesce around San Luis, a 14K titan with massive sloping green sides that jut far, far above tree line. I could see tiny people on the ridgeline (tried to get a photo). I thought, gosh, they’re hours away from shelter.

When rains and light hail arrived, I took shelter among the willows. It’s a new technique for me. I put the rain cover on my pack, sit on my sitpad, and put up my umbrella with the shrubbery to my back. Willows are the rhododendrons of the west, no question. I was wrong the other day in thinking it was aspens.

A guy about my age (trailname: Knoxville)—whom Sundial and Ren had mentioned and who also knows Tater—joined me and we sheltered and talked about his plans for after his hike.

Knoxville left shortly before I did. The rain had stopped and some clear patches were showing. I made it over San Luis Pass without incident, but that was far from the end of above-treeline hiking. I circled gradually around another massive bowl, the trail visible for miles ahead.

I felt that I had dodged the weather, which is sort of silly if you think about the size of a storm and the slow pace of a human traveling on foot. But I do know when to take shelter!

Soon more clouds gathered and I once again sheltered under the willows. It is a bit of a timesuck to wait out storms. Also a timesuck: stopping to catch my breath every 30 seconds. The thinness of the air has been been hitting me at 11K feet.

There is a saddle marked as the high point for this section. The descent after that point was steep. I found a campsite among dead trees at almost exactly 12K. I positioned my tent for the least possible danger from trees. Still plenty of danger! I reconnected with family and friends with my satcom.

It took me ten hours to walk a little over 12 miles.