From Mica Lake, the
trail dropped dramatically to the valley floor through which flows Milk Creek, whose
head waters are Milk Lake, a small glacier-fed lake high up on the mountains
and over a ridge, making it impossible to see from the trail. Milk
Creek was a major tributary of the Suiattle River, which is one of two primary
rivers (White Chuck River being the other) that funnels snowmelt off Glacier
Peak and out to the Pacific Ocean, seventy miles away.
Milk Creek, like Kennedy
Creek, has a tendency to lose its bridges. In 1973, there was a log
crossing that was replaced in 1974 by a $40,000 permanent bridge, that in turn
was wiped out by an early summer avalanche in 1975. (Schaffer, p. 302)
There have been other bridges across this dangerous stream, the last one
in 2008. This latest bridge is made of steel girders, held together by
five-pound riveted bolts. Most of the heavy steel girders were ferried in
by helicopter to the construction site and assembled here. There is no
guarantee that this steel bridge will be in place when future hikers reach this
spot.
From Milk Creek, the
trail began an upward climb through an unbelievable number of switchbacks.
All the way to the top, I counted units of eight, sixteen, twenty-four,
sometimes going as high as ninety-six steps, before resting and starting over
again. The climb was a grind, and very painful; I had to stop often to
rest. The rain continued its steady drizzle and I was cold, and getting
colder. My legs were like blocks of cement, and the effort to place one
foot in front of the other was agonizing. At more than one point in the
climb, I leaned on my trekking poles, head resting on my crossed hands and
alternately cried and prayed. I was miserable beyond belief. I was
alone and the loneliness was gradually starting to wear on me.
On the ocean, towards
the end of the trip, loneliness, equipment breakdowns, periodically being
drenched by salt water, which aggravated and pained the salt water sores on my
rear end, akin to diaper rash that a baby experiences, and a longing for the
trip to be over with, brought me to my breaking point. In this heightened
state of agitation, the last wave that broke over the side of the boat,
drenching me from head to toe in caustic salt water causing stinging pain in my
derriere, shorting out for good my tape cassette player, my only source of
entertainment in an otherwise dreary environment – put me over the edge, and I
exploded in rage.
I began to shout and
scream and rant and rave as loud as I could, and I commenced swearing,
something I never do. I shouted and screamed and yelled every four-letter
word I could think of, and I did it over and over again; for five minutes or
more, I let loose a blue streak that would have put any salty-dog sailor to
shame. I was so exasperated, so despondent and so discouraged; my
frustrations had been building for weeks, and finally it all blew. I’m so
glad there was no around to hear me; it was awful, but liberating.
The trail was in deep
forest now which obscured most of the glaciers around the mountain. There
was one more treacherous river to cross, the biggest of all in this North
Country – the Suiattle River. This river crossing, too, had seen its
share of shattered and destroyed bridges, and for several years, the only way
to get across it was via a huge log that had toppled across the stream.
To see pictures of this log and hikers crossing it, one may Google
Suiattle River Bridge for YouTube videos of hikers crossing on the log.
From the Milk Creek
Bridge crossing, I walked twelve miles to the trail junction where the old PCT
headed down to the original Suiattle Bridge crossing. From this junction,
it's 2.2 miles to the river and the spot where the 265-foot-long wooden Skyline
Bridge once stood. It was completely destroyed by a massive flood on
October 17, 2003, that tore through the canyon at locomotive speeds.
Fueled by ten inches of rain over a vast area of the Glacier Peak
Wilderness, the PCT lost eight bridges that October.
It would be eight years
before a new bridge over the Suiattle River could be built; until then, it was
the log over the river or nothing. Those with confidence and good balance
would walk across it; all others had to straddle the log with their legs and
scoot across on their bums. The river wasn’t that wide, but it was fast and
deep enough to easily swallow a hiker.
A new bridge site was
located two and a half miles downriver, where the span would be shorter than
the original Skyline Bridge, and bedrock was available right at the water’s
edge for supporting steel pilings.
It took an hour to reach
the new bridge, and what a beauty it is. Like the new Milk Creek Bridge,
this one also is built of steel girders, assembled on-site. It took some
arm twisting for the Forest Service to get permission to use helicopters in a
wilderness area to bring in the heavy steel beams and other construction
material, as well as permission to use chain saws and dynamite to facilitate
the removal of tree root balls and boulders for an extension of the trail.
The Suiattle River
crossing was the last major river crossing for the PCT; now the trail started a
long descent down Agnes Creek Gorge, which terminated at the High Bridge River
crossing over the Stehekin River. The trek down the Agnes Creek Gorge was
unparalleled beauty; it was highly reminiscent of views down Kings Canyon from
Forester Pass in the High Sierras, except that Agnes Creek Gorge “supports a
much denser growth of flowers, shrubs and trees.” (Schaffer, p. 310)
Working my way down a
long traverse on the side of the mountain, a lone figure appeared on the trail
far below me. As we closed the gap between us, I noticed something
familiar about the approaching hiker – the headband. Most hikers – male
and female, wear a hat and only a few – mostly females, wear a headband.
As we continued to draw closer, from the headband, I recognized the hiker
as Nurse Betty, a hiker I hadn’t seen since McDonald's at El Cajon in Southern
California, over twenty-five hundred miles ago. We were happy to see one
another, and stopped in the middle of the trail to exchange information. Nurse
Betty, who in the early stages of her hike, had been hiking with Cookie and
Peter Pan, had made it to Cascade Locks, but recognizing that she was behind
schedule and fearful that she might not be able to reach the Canadian border
before snow began to fall, flip-flopped to Hart's Pass (she did so by
hitchhiking) which was only thirty miles from the border, then continued north.
At the border, she signed the register, took several selfies, turned
around, and started hiking south. When she returns to Cascade Locks, her
journey will be complete.
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