DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN WITH MY FATHER

 

 

Three days down from the Canadian border, the rains began.  Things were not looking good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was twenty-three and hiking the Washington portion of the Pacific Crest Trail with my father in September. I was excited to have an adventure with him since I hadn't spent much time with him as child. Intermittent memories of interactions with him included liking his smell of Old Spice,  riding shotgun without a seatbelt in our doorless Land Cruiser through floodwaters when I was six, him pointing out I had colored outside the lines and missed some spots in the picture I gave him for Father's Day, him taking up badminton with my brother when I was fourteen, him making me do ten re-writes of a high school paper on the economics of slavery because I was in big trouble with the teacher. And his pronouncements like,"People who don't think about consequences are either immature or insane."   I remember himferrying me home after my numerous gastrointestinal disasters like typhoid and barfing oysters on the T in Boston.  I had a Father Figure.  Here I was, in a Tough Spot with him, about as remote from civilization as you could get, yet shoulder to shoulder with the man who had been mostly an image to me, and things were getting brutally real.

 

 

This is a woodblock print I made from a photo taken at the river crossing. I call it My Old Man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We had a choice. We could hike back three days and not experience the adventure we'd planned. In the Northwest, once the rains come in on the jet stream, they are there for nine months. We proceeded because we believed in our Goretex jackets and tent. After  fording the glacial river, we were frozen and wet below the waist. Then the rain started soaking through the hoods of our parkas. We hiked up out of the misty forest, above the treeline and began the trek across an open scree slope. The rain became a wet snow that fell heavily upon us. That night in the leaking tent, our teeth clattered in our heads and we shuddered as our bodies attempted to stay warm. We had committed, and things were getting worse.

 

To reach a stone shelter so we could sleep dry the next night  would require walking thirty miles the next day. We trudged on, because walking was the only way to stop shaking. Blood blisters ballooned in my wet socks, chafing from my wet pants caused searing red welts on my inner thighs, and diarrhea drained my waning energy. Dad's pace continued to slow.

 

We lost some elevation descending the side trail that would lead us to the three-sided stone shelter where we might be able to get dry. Dad's feet barely shuffled. When we arrived, he crawled into his damp sleeping bag with the dryest clothes he could find. He did not light the camp stove and cook the dinner as he normally did.

 

Despite my cramps and uncontrollable shaking, I managed to heat the tea and freeze-dried lasagne.  I had to feed Dad and had a hard time swallowing the lasagne myself, even though I was famished. I did not wash the dishes in the lake that night, and crawled into my own bag that felt and smelled like a drowned mouse.

 

We shivered against each other through the dark wet hours, then Dad started mumbling and stopped shaking. I felt his clammy, cold face and knew he was passing into serious hypothermia. Through the rest of the night I briskly rubbed his arms and head to keep him awake, praying for the morning to appear, praying for him not to fall asleep. I wasn't praying for the Lord to take our souls to heaven, but to keep them on Earth.

The mist clung to the eaves as the black night faded into leaden daylight. I peeled the damp sleeping bag off and saw Dad's blue eye open under his bushy brow. 

 

"Some night, huh, Dad? You're still here with me, and I'm going to make lots of hot black tea and double oatmeal. We'll eat all  the jerky for breakfast, and then we'll make for the Pass where we can call the Smiths from the gas station."

 

His other eye blinked open. We had made it through the night.  Dad and I ascended the thousand feet back to the PCT. It would take us 'til after dark, twelve hours, to reach the Pass as we plowed our way through hip deep snow in the open areas and splashed through running water on the forested sections of the trail.  My thighs and feet openly bled and my bottom suffered from an excruciating rash. The lights of the freeway twinkled at us long before we would reach it, but the end was in sight. Those lights fueled our slow march.

 

Our friends made it to the Pass an hour after receiving our call, bundled us into the car, and transported us down to the other world where we would be warm and dry. 

 

It's coming on Father's Day, and I'm writing this from a Tough Spot. 

 

Dad, thanks for taking me on that trip. I'm way out here right now. Will you come pick me up?