91. Tight Spots

Starting at a trailhead near Hurricane Ridge at 5200 feet, an intriguing hike into the Olympic Mountains promised to be an easy descent over wildflower meadows and mountain goat terrain for several miles into a valley before looping around for the more challenging climb back out. Yes, it turned out to be wonderful, except for a section of trail my old trail guidebook didn’t describe very well.

The plan was to follow this trail to a place where I would meet up with some guys who would be coming in on a different route. With a tent and all the supplies, I was carrying a full back pack of about 50 pounds, and feeling chaffed and fatigued with every step. Long past the point of turning back, the trail became less distinct, obviously not traveled nor maintained recently. Even the marker signs were sometimes missing or broken. But my guidebook showed I was in the right place and I slogged on.

Then I came to a broad, steep escarpment. The guidebook indicated it could be easily traversed pretty much horizontally; but as I started out onto it, I found it was a slope of probably over 30°, and composed entirely of loose shale rubble. I could barely detect the trail at times because it was so littered with scattered rocks.  About ¼ mile across the expanse, the trail apparently resumed on solid ground. The decision to go ahead and cross this slope instead of turning around the way I’d come was one I would regret.

At first, I felt pretty steady and balanced on the crossing. But by the midway point, a sense of panic swept over me. I looked up the slope at the precarious mass of loose rock, and down at the treetops far below. Footing was treacherous. With every step, loose chunks of shale tumbled several hundred feet, each one kicking up a mini avalanche on its way down. My pack made me top-heavy, and even with awalking stick, I was concerned that a gust of wind could tip me over. There was not a single boulder or tree trunk to block my free-fall, and feeling a little dizzy, I crouched down to regain my cool head. It was just me, a tiny terrified speck, perched on a vast nightmare mountainside. Whose idea was it to create this trail in the first place? What fool recommended it in the guidebook? And what young hiker would walk out onto this impossible place all by himself?

Of all things, a little Gray Jay flew down and landed near me. I guess the little camp robber hoped I was picnicking and he could snatch a morsel or two. I reached in my pocket and broke off some crumbs of a granola bar for him. We enjoyed each other’s company, and I started to feel like myself. After a 20-minute rest, I had a talk with the mountain and we came to an agreement about me continuing along safely. I hoisted my pack and resumed crossing gingerly to the other side of the slope—and you can bet that I kissed the ground.  

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To continue my trilogy of tales of poor judgment, there was another time I was hiking in the same mountains with some buddies. I took a slightly different trail up the pass than the others. I came to a small waterfall that beckoned me to take time to gaze and rest. It was a hot day, and the cool spray felt so good on my face. I decided to take off shoes and shirt and step in for a refreshing cold shower. 

I knew that curiosity kills the cat, and sometimes the hiker; but I started climbing straight up the waterfall, gripping the rocky cliff with bare hands and feet, and enjoying the waterfall’s cool mist. As with the previous story about crossing the escarpment, I reached a point when I looked down and froze with fear. I was maybe 35-40’ up the falls and it suddenly dawned on me that I was in a perilous place, clinging to wet rock that was not very stable material. If there had been a big pool at the bottom I might have enjoyed a cliff dive, and continuing up wasn’t possible for me. I wished I was perched on a ledge where I could catch my breath and clear my head, but I was literally clinging to loose layers of mossy rock. The only option was to go back down, and that took me twice as long as going up, thanks to my shattered nerves and cold stiff hands and feet.

When I reached the bottom, I saw a deer who had been watching me from his sunny spot by the pool, and I imagined that he was thinking, “What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?” I sat withing a few yards of him quietly for a half hour or so until I stood to put my shoes on, and he got up and moved toward the trail, where he paused and looked back.  It seemed like he was waiting for me.

I thanked the deer for staying with me, and said to him, “I’m going uphill to meet my friends. Which was are you heading?” He turned to face downhill, looked back at me, then trotted out of view.  I had to consider the possibility that he was looking after me!

••••••••••

On one of my trips across America in the 60’s, I was driving my old van with a couple of young hitchhikers I’d picked up early in the day. It was approaching dusk and we intended to pull off the highway and camp for the night. But a flat tire interrupted our plans, and I’m pretty sure we narrowly missed danger that night.

I turned onto the shoulder and confessed to my passengers that I didn’t have a good spare tire. While I jacked up the van, my passengers, a guy and his girlfriend, stood by the edge of the road to hail someone for help; I hoped to get a lift and carry the flat to the next service station. We were somewhere way east of Chicago, where the only services for drivers along the toll road were the restaurant/gas station concessions spaced 20 or 30 miles apart.

Shortly, a guy in a station wagon stopped and agreed to take me and the flat to the next gas station. There was definitely a creepy vibe about the driver, but it was getting late and there weren’t many other cars, so I got in. Conversation was weird! I was relieved when we pulled into the station and I handed my flat to the attendant. The driver was hanging around, and offered to wait for the repair and take me back to my van, but I was nervous about him. Just as he was going on about my female passenger being a really hot chick, a Highway Patrolman walked over from the restaurant and asked if I was having car problems, and the sketchy guy got in his car and drove off.

In those days I was more used to cops giving me a hard time for being a Hippie, but it was a huge relief that the police presence made the scary guy take off. The Patrolman then let me know that he’d spotted me getting out of the station wagon, and that there had been a number of reports of a suspicious guy in a white station wagon on the Interstate who was apparently looking for hitchhikers or young drivers in need of assistance. He was happy to take me back to my van, helped with the tire, and stayed until we were ready to drive on.

I don’t know if any crimes had been committed yet, but it gave me a shudder to think that I or my passengers may have been close to a seriously bad guy. Too innocent for my own good, I barely comprehended what a pervert was, and this was before the term “serial killer” had even been coined. I was like a lot of young people hitchhiking and traveling around our country who hadn’t become savvy enough to realize when they were in a dangerous situation!