By Leslie Limardo
A friend and I – let’s call her B – decided to go on a hike last week. The weather over the winter was mild, meaning lack of snow and an earlier than usual arrival of warm temperatures, so time outside sounded inviting, ushering in visions of fresh, new green on plants and thoughts of smelling sun-warmed pine needles, all while walking under a bright blue sky, scattered with feathery white cirrus clouds and birds chirping merrily above our heads. Let’s do the 5.9 mile-Sherman Peak Loop, said B, to which I readily agree. We head out from Kettle Falls around noon on a Sunday, with a 30-minute drive to reach the start of what we know from experience is a roughly two-hour hike. I had been kayaking in weeks prior and thought nothing of cruising to the top of the pass for what I assumed would be a leisurely stroll with a dear friend.
With the car parked on the side of the road, we set out, me with my iced coffee in hand and a bottle of water in my bag (no food) over the first steps of the trail. B had some water and, she said, some nuts and seeds to snack on. Within feet, we encounter a small patch of snow on the trail. “No big deal,” I said, it’s just a little snow, and we proceed, walking easily over the flattened crust of now dirty white, aged precipitation that once festooned every inch of trail at this higher than valley height. I wore my Chacos and hiking socks, because I had realized too late that my boot inserts had been left at home and so made what was later confirmed to be a rash decision to hike in socks and sandals. We press on, having chosen to head west at the trail split, starting off in a new-to-us direction and seeing things from a different and ultimately, more challenging perspective.
Talking and walking, the patches of snow increase in occurrence and density. “Do you want to turn around?” asked B. “No way,” I respond. It’s still just a little snow.
A few miles in and we are walking over piles of snow 20 inches or more high, still terming conditions easy as we manage to stay on top of the long, icy, elevated lines, comforted by the signs we see of other human travelers recently passing this way, like shoe prints, sawn trees, and the resulting sawdust strewn over sections of the path. “It’s fine,” I tell myself. “Someone has been here, the way has been cleared (minus the snow, of course), and we are doing fabulously.”
Hoping to reach a section of trail that has been sufficiently warmed and cleared by the sun, we press on, slightly surprised when we begin to fall through the top of the snowpack, our feet and legs sliding down, almost to the ground below, B getting small, but lasting scrapes from the jagged crusts of ice as they reach out and attack her bare legs. In one of my better decisions of the day, I had decided to wear pants and so was saved from direct skin contact with the snow, except when I lost my balance on falls through the softened top layers and had to put my hands out to keep my face from leaving a short-lived, personal imprint.
We hike on, balancing atop the rows of snow, stopping for small sips of water and admiring the view. At some point I look up and to see what should have been the high, light gray, cubed rock walls of Sherman Mountain, only to see almost black, rectangular rocks reaching up to the sky instead. “Hey B,” I say, “this doesn’t look familiar to me,” thinking even though the trail is in the proper position, with the ground falling off to our right as we walk in a loop, something doesn’t feel right. “It’s fine,” says B, “there was probably snow covering the sides last time and so it just looks different right now.” My eyes scan off to the east and are stopped suddenly by the sight of the pointed roof of a. “I don’t remember there being a cabin off this trail,” I say, “but maybe we missed it last time because we were walking in the opposite direction.”
We walk up to explore more, me opening the creaky wooden door via the iron latch as B exclaimed, “What are you doing? There could be an axe murderer inside!” I laugh off her unfounded worries as I push the door in, only to be met by a steel blade crashing down on my neck as…oh wait, wrong story line, sorry. The cabin was empty, save cots topped with eggshell foam, a wood stove, and shelves filled with outdoor supplies, minus any sort of food or maps. That’s when I choose to relay to B the true story of a boy who was lost on a mountain in Maine for days, dropped forty pounds, and ended up with burlap on his feet in place of shoes, the only object of assist he found in a remote cabin before he himself was rescued and eventually recovered. “Don’t worry, though, that won’t happen to us,” I say. “We are on an actual trail and we will find our way back to the road. And no way am I taking off my Chacos.”
We decide to continue in the same direction to see if anything starts to look familiar. “I need to pee,” says B, followed by, “We’re good, I recognize this place, I’ve peed here before.” Almost fully trusting, but wanting just a tad more confirmation for my own mind (because everyone files away outdoor bathroom breaks in the save forever part of the brain, right?), I take out my phone again, put a pin on the finish spot, choose walking as my mode of transportation, and push “Start.” I then take a few steps and realize we are going the wrong way and must have missed our turnoff, our beloved Sherman Peak being one mountain over to our left. “We have to go back,” I tell B, “but hopefully there will be a lot less snow on this side of the mountain and it will be an easier traverse, thinking of my sodden feet and their alternating states of frozen and approaching a thaw as we go back and forth between deep, soft snow and bare trail. B texts her friend to say they may need to see the late show of “The Devil Wears Prada 2” and I text my daughter and let her know we’ll be gone a little longer than planned. Backtracking through the snow, we try and step in our existing footprints, finally coming upon the turnoff we had missed oh, five miles ago. Having consoled ourselves with thoughts of having been so focused on walking through the snow and insisting the turn had been concealed by mounds of said white stuff, thereby prompting us to walk right past in a nice day state of mind while pleasantly conversing, you may understand how astounded we were when we reached the turn and realized we had, indeed, strolled right past the completely open, snow-free path, inanely failing to look one millimeter to our left and notice our loop trail breaking off to complete the eastern curve of the circle.
Needing to pamper myself and shove down the guilty feelings I was having to swallow, I asked B if she had any food she could share. I needed some sustenance, especially once we realized there was, in fact, even more snow on this last section than any other part of the trails we had already walked. She pulled out a bag that contained, no joke, roughly 10 shelled pistachios and 15 tiny, green pepitas (a kind of baby pumpkin seed). I thought she was kidding, surely her pack contained more food, but no, she had grabbed just a small handful and thrown it in a plastic baggie on her way out the door. I couldn’t criticize though, considering I had brought along exactly nothing in terms of food. I downed the nuts and seeds, and after walking a decent patch of dry trail, decided to sit down and take off my socks. Ice balls fell down and out of the socks as I shook them and, I hung them on a tree branch to collect next time we did the loop. A mere 60 feet later, I turned around and went back for the socks as even more snow appeared, blocking our way. I managed to pull them gingerly back onto my frozen feet after wringing out the muddy water, grateful once again for a barrier between my piggies and the snow, even a cold and wet one, sort of like “two hearts living in just one mind, beating together til the end of time” (sing along if the music grabs you, Phil would be flattered).
Hiking on, sinking, rising, sliding, we finally begin to see portions of the road we know means we are almost to the car and assured safety, and no one had to call 911. I tell B we need to come up with one line to remember this hike, and we eventually settle on two: “No big deal, it’s just a little snow,” and “It’s fine, I’ve peed here before” (my personal fave). Laughing most of the way home, we find lots of ways to use our newly minted sayings, realizing how fantastically reassuring it can be when someone tells you they’ve peed there before. Not.
Arriving home I shower, failing to succeed in getting out all the dirt that’s been compacted into my toenails. Enjoying a wash and a fresh appreciation for soap, I follow with a 15-minute massage from our over-the-chair massager, borrow and use my dance daughter’s foot massage capsule, and think about all the bad choices I made on this day. Starting a mountain hike with snow still on the ground, choosing a different way than I was used to, not paying attention, and spending too much time talking and not enough time tracking. There were a few really good choices, though, like hiking with a great friend, having an iced coffee from Crandall Coffee Co., getting in almost double the miles and exercise than we had planned and well, maybe the best choice of all, turning around when we did and making it out before dark.
I feel like I used to be an experienced hiker. I hiked solo a ton with my dog. I didn’t get lost. I’m not sure what the difference is between now and then, and I’m staying away from the number of “life years” because I’m just not ready to go there yet, but maybe that’s my problem. Even sitting in my bed late at night I can still smell the delicious aroma of pine hit by the bright sun, and soft brown dirt heated by the warm air, with cold stone resting alongside both. And I already know I need more of all of the above. Except maybe not on top of a mountain in early May and maybe not wearing Chacos and socks while trekking through snow. Northeast Washington has so much to offer. Just don’t get yourself dead enjoying it. And maybe buy a satphone and download a trail app before your next outdoor adventure. I’m doing at least one of those. Probably.
Leslie Limardo lives in Arden with her family, loves to spend time outdoors, and tries really hard not to get herself into situations that require some sort of extrication.
