I stepped into the shower.
The water hit the back of my head and dragged the dust and grime down to the tub. The hot water sent my body convulsing toward euphoria as if the wetness bleeding down my back was a heroine needle being compressed into my veins. And why not? My body was aching, dirty and fatigued. It deserved a reward. A reward so simple that this ordinary act of releasing the filth from my body brought me to a state of nirvana.
It all started Thursday night. There was a meeting of Honda Elements at the shop. People were dropped off, water bottles were filled and then someone showed up in a Toyota Tacoma and off we went followed by a pack of wolves.
Our first goal was to reach Mill Flat before the sun had evaporated completely from the sky. As these things tend to go we were leaving about a half hour later than we had hoped. No worries, we all had headlamps and were prepared to hike in the dark if needed. We hadn’t completely researched our water sources so we were a little concerned about finding water in the flat. And having water for the dogs on the trip up. This meant that KB and I were both packing about 12 pounds of water.
We hit water about two miles up the trail. KB smartly pulled her water out and dumped it in the stream. I carried mine for a bit more just because I could with the excuse that I would rather carry then have to filter before we got to the top. This didn’t last too long as we drank my water down quickly and then I dumped half of it out. It’s amazing what taking six pounds of water out of your pack can do for your attitude.
We entered the burned area of the canyon as the sun was dropping off the face of the earth. Its angle was low and it kept the top section of the cliffs, just above the trees colored with a reddish yellow hue. The lighting, the burned trees and the flowers all contrasted to create what I would say was a master piece of a sunset. As a master piece is the perfect contrast of all the imperfections.
And then about 8:30 we topped out at the flat. The grass was green and there was water trickling down the meadow. The pack of wolves went nuts, especially Chaco when his pack was removed. Taking three dogs backpacking for two days requires a good chunk of food. Moco and Chaco shared the duty of carrying the pack. Of course, once the journey to the top was over, the relief of removing the extra weight from his, and in that matter, all of our backs was reason for thanks giving.
The dogs had been to Mills Flat before. Hell, Lily has been there more times than I can recall. I would have to dig through a decade of photos to count the numerous day trips and overnighters we have enjoyed in that meadow. So the dogs knew what to do, run, frollick and more or less waste as much energy as possible. The moment the mostly broken zipper of our tent was secured, the dogs lost all control and spent the next eight hours running full speed in whatever direction the last sound had come from.
Of course, this is pretty normal affair for them. Normal because usually we get up the next day, relax around a fire and then slowly head back down the mountain. With the exception of Lily, none of the dogs had been on a two-nighter. I’ve been told that dogs don’t remember things for long, but I can’t help but believe that they were regretting their binge of hunting the night before when after 9.5 hours we finally made it to our next resting spot.
Morning came.
I was pleased with myself for not forgetting to pack my sleeping pad again. In the interest of full disclosure, it was the first thing to go in my pack. And then I double checked about 15 times before I put said pack in the car. Having a pad to buffer out the pine cones, rocks, sticks and bumps that natural surfaces tend to have, is a god send after packing in for five hours. There is nothing more rewarding then hitting a soft spot after your journey has taken almost everything you had to give.
Our journey had been planned on the memories of an old, fat man who had ventured into these parts of the woods many times. Not only that, he had done this exact trip twice before, in the same amount of time. What we didn’t account for was that the old man’s memory on distances and difficulty had been seasoned with time.
The jaunt from Mill Flat over to Whipple is an enjoyable walk. You have one good climb coming out of the flat and then you more or less descend in to the valley after basking in the views from the Browse Overlook. As the name implies, the overlook looks down into the Browse area of the mountain. The amazing thing about my mountain is the absurd ruggedness of its edges. Leaving the trees to edge out at the overlook puts you squarely on a ledge that seems to drop all the way back down the 7 or 8 miles that you just climbed up. Grey rock spires plummet under your feet giving you the feeling that some orcs are about to come out of the woods chasing Frodo.
We were feeling good about our progress when we hit North Valley. We had left fairly early in the day and were still not ready for lunch. We ventured on reaching Whipple Valley a little before noon. We stopped and filtered water in the company of about 3o packs, all scattered around the trail. I guess when you are five miles from anywhere you don’t have to worry about anyone stealing your stuff because they won’t want to carry it out.
The packs belonged to a group of young women.
On our descent from the Browse Overlook, I had heard a noise and saw some red. I figured we had met up with some pack horses. I was dismayed as 30 girls with their adult chaperons came pouring out of the trees. We hadn’t seen anybody outside of our group for over 12 hours. Our rugged solitude was quickly converted to a crowded mall atmosphere as they all filed by, giggling and saying hello. Of course, they had divided themselves into two groups, a big group and a small group. The small group consisted of 21 one of them and was in the lead. The big group held only 9 but was dragging behind and not looking as happy to be moving.
As crowds go on Pine Valley Mountain, Whipple Valley had way too many people in it. After encountering the group of giddy school girls, we then met John Wayne and his possy of men galloping through the valley and shooting their guns in the air. Obviously chasing some criminal that must be caught and that would be impressed by gunfire.
We got our water bottles filled as quickly as possible and got the hell out of there.
At this point, that fat man’s memory had served pretty well. We had a nice jaunt up to Mill Flat and then a simple one climber and about five miles over to Whipple. After that valley, the memories were vacant of the numerous climbs, distance or water sources that lay behind. What we had hoped to be a 5-6 miles turned into 8.
The trail had not been completely cleared. Meaning that after a mile or so from South Valley, we had to pick our way through the downed trees. We came back upon our group of John Wankers’ horses. They were all tied up with one “cowboy” to watch them. He informed us that the others were attempting to clear trail so they could continue on the horses. We filed past and quickly ran into the rest of the group. Word was that the trail was cleared from Hidden Valley to Further Water but they weren’t sure how many more miles we would have of crawling through God’s game of pick up sticks. The horse thief catching wannabes turned around. We had little choice but to forge on.
The trail cleared after a few hundred feet and we began what seemed to be an endless cycle of climbing, dropping that gained elevation and then climbing again.
One of the troughs of this never-ending sine curve was Hidden Valley. We dropped down some loose, rugged trail into a hole. This hole was green and had some water pooled up in one spot. Seeing that it had been a few hours since we had filled up in Whipple, we forced filter the water in order to make it to Further Water, where we hoped we would be able to find that hydrating substance once again.
With Hidden Valley water in my bottle, it smelled like a fart every time I unscrewed the lid for a swallow. It was not the best tasting water, but at that point, it was a hell of a lot better than not having.
We continued on in our quest for a flat spot to sleep.
The south side of the mountain has less vegetation. You won’t see as many quakies and the under growth all but disappears. The old fat man’s memory was that there was a split in the trail with a sign and then you kind of just walked into Further Water. Unfortunately, every time we topped at of a valley, the saddle would look exactly like that memory. It started to feel like Groundhog Day and mythical torture combined. Every saddle held the hopes that we were almost there and then we would drop back off the face of the earth and be forced to climb again.
We made it to Deer Valley and it was dry as a bone. This made me a little worried about Further Water, especially considering the lack of memory of much of the trail. Shelby forged onward making a valiant effort to get this stupid day done. As we were dropping into Further Water, I heard Shelby yell, “Water!” And I knew we had finally made it. I found him stretched out next to the trail waiting as we came into the meadow. When I pointed out the campsite directly in front of him, he responded that he hadn’t even noticed it.
Arriving after our all day journey was very satisfying. Our packs hit the ground, we groaned and we looked around at this long valley with water trickling down its belly. The journey was on pause until the next morning. I pulled my boots off and let me feet see air. I then ventured down to the creek and rinsed the day’s dust off of my face and feet. Being calorically deprived and exhausted, once the cool breeze hit my now wet body, I froze. I couldn’t stop shivering until I wedged myself into my sleeping bag. It was about 7 o’clock but there was no reason to remain vertical. Once off my feet, I laid in my bag watching the sun slowly drop and waiting for dark when my eyes would finally shut to not open again until morning.
Holding true to the motif of our previous day, leaving Further Water requires one to climb. After a short jaunt uphill, the reward of all the work was laid before us. From our vantage point we looked down on Washington County. The mountain was behind us and the void of its height before us. We dropped our packs, pulled out the cameras and had the celebratory moment of making it to the top. This, despite the fact, that we did not actually make it to the highest point in the county.
And then we descended.
The hike down Forsythe Canyon is just that, down. We knew we were nearing civilization again when people started coming toward us. We were asked my favorite of all outdoor questions, how far is it? I always want to replay, how far is it to what? but I held my tongue and replied that it was quite a way to the top and we were on our third day. Down, down, down.
And then we were in the car with the AC blasting and the struggle to move became depressing a pedal. The effort of our journey began to fade and our muscles started to seize.
The seasoning of our memories had already begun.
