I thru-hiked the Enchantments on Friday, and it was glorious.

J. and I drove up to Leavenworth on Thursday via the Gorge, stopping at the Deschutes River State Recreation Area to go for a run (him) and a short hike (me) followed by much-needed partial (me) and full (him) immersion in the river — J.’s watch told him it got up to 108 degrees F during his run, and I believe it. In Leavenworth we ate veggie wursts buried in caramelized onions and kraut (when in faux Bavaria…) and then found a campsite not too far from the Snow Lakes Trailhead. On Friday morning at 6am, we met the guy behind the Loop Connector shuttle at the trailhead, and he drove us back past our campsite to the Stuart Lake Trailhead. “What time do you guys think you’ll finish?” he asked us.

“I have no idea,” I told him. J. asked me what my worst-case guess was. “10:30?” I was basing that off vague memories of the day-hikers I met last year while backpacking with a Snow Lakes permit, but I didn’t really think it would be that late. After all, I’m a super-fit PCT section hiker! I hiked 32 miles in a day the other week! 19ish would be a piece of cake.

At the trailhead, we filled out our day-use wilderness permits and started uphill around 6:30. I was hiking and J. was running — we planned to meet next at Colchuck Lake. I found him instead a little before the lake, napping on a giant rock with a beautiful view of the surrounding hills.

J. ran ahead and I continued on past Colchuck Lake towards Aasgard Pass. The lake was impossibly turquoise, and the trail was already a little harder to follow than I expected. The PCT is so easy — well-defined, well-marked, gently graded. But I was not on the PCT anymore! The trail was rocky, rooty, steep, and oh-so fun… but it was past 9 by the time I met J. again where the trail left the lake and began to ascend towards Aasgard Pass.

We followed cairns and sometimes bits of trail across and up the talus slope, crossing waterways and listening for the eeps of pikas. Every time I turned around to look behind me I grinned. Every time I looked up from where I was placing my feet I grinned. The sun behind the clouds above the pass cast rays of light, a picture of heaven — “We’re climbing to heaven!” I yelled to J.

Two hours and one false summit later, we topped out, and there was Isolation Lake. We took a snack break and watched a mountain goat be its goat-y self hopping across some rocks.

J. ran off ahead to scramble up Little Annapurna while I made my way down the trail. We planned to meet at the spot I thought, on the map, was where Sara and Mark and I had turned around last year on our day trip into the Core Zone. Everything around me was beautiful. Water ran across rocks and through meadows. The rocks were smooth and sharp and tumbled and arranged in a way Heraclitus would have loved. I saw a marmot dash from one pile of rocks to another, across a little meadow. I saw another one much closer, near a stream where I stopped to filter water. I took a million photos. (The photos included here are but a small, heavily culled selection!)

I descended towards Inspiration Lake, where J. and I planned to meet. The spot I’d pointed to on the map turned out not to be the spot I remembered — whoops. I found a rock to wait at where I’d be sure to see J. come down the trail, and I watched a mountain goat browse its way across some rocks and then settle down on a high perch for a while. A group of backpackers swam in the lake nearby — I regret that I didn’t use my time waiting for J. to swim myself. I felt a little awkward so near another group, and I didn’t want to risk missing J. when he came by, since we had no way of communicating with one another at a distance. So, I waited and snacked, and eventually he came down the trail.

We traversed the next bit of trail more or less together, J. running off ahead but stopping here and there to look around and take it all in. I found him at a side trail, gesturing for me to come over, watching a small group of goats, including a kid, graze in a little meadow.

As we watched the goats, another day hiker came up behind us. “This is a great side trip,” he told us, gesturing up the side trail we were on. “It’s about 500 feet up, beautiful views.”

“In how many miles?” I asked him.

“Half.”

J. looked at me. “Can I convince you to come with me?”

“Sure,” I said, and we started up.

The trail led to a saddle next to Prusik Peak. On the other side of the saddle, we looked down towards Shield Lake. The view was, as promised, incredible, in every direction.

Gaia’s topo showed a dotted-line trail curving around past Gnome Tarn and back down to the main trail through the basin, so we figured we’d give it a try instead of going back down the way we’d come up. We managed to find a few cairns, but pretty quickly realized there was no trail to speak of. We followed the line on Gaia and picked our way down a ridge, over rocks and around bushy plant growth, until, near the bottom, we finally found trail again.

At Leprechaun Lake, I took my shoes and socks off and soaked my feet, then waded in up to my thighs. My knees were sore and creaky, unused to all the steep ups and downs. After a while, we continued on to Lake Viviane, and from there down the steep descent towards Upper Snow Lake. It was late afternoon already, but I was still (irrationally) optimistic about finishing before dark. We hiked down, down, down.

J. ran ahead and said he’d wait up at the dam between Upper and Lower Snow Lakes. I found him there as the sun slipped behind the hills, and we headed on towards Nada Lake. In the decreasing light, he kindly stayed not too far ahead of me, waiting up every mile or so. Once, I saw him ahead of me in a thimbleberry patch, and when I caught up he turned to me with a half dozen berries in his palm. “For me?” I asked gratefully. Yes! Nothing better!

When the light faded entirely around 9, I turned on my headlamp and kept walking, trying not to think about cougars. J. waited for me every quarter mile or so. It was just about 10 o’clock when we finally crossed the bridge over the river and hiked the last couple hundred feet up to the trailhead.

I was exhausted and done. But what an incredibly beautiful, fun day. When can I go back? “Hey,” J. told me, “this hike included your two favorite things: boulder hopping and night hiking.” He meant it sarcastically — talus and darkness have historically freaked me out and left me frustrated and cranky. I’d be lying if I said the day was totally devoid of frustration and crankiness, but mostly it was wonderful. I felt strong and capable (if understandably sore and tired by the end) and everything was gorgeous.

…and the Enchantments definitely is the most beautiful place in the world. When can I go back and do it again?

There’s not so many lakes today, but the ones there are are exceptionally lovely. I think about stopping to swim, but it’s just breezy enough that swimming sounds kind of chilly. And in any case I’m looking forward to getting to Shelter Cove.

I stop at the Willamette Pass trailhead, a tenth of a mile off the PCT, to use the outhouse. A woman sitting in the open doorway of a Sprinter van asks me, “Did you see a yellow cat up there on the trail?”

I pull my earbud out. “Sorry?”

“A yellow housecat.”

“No, why?”

“Our cat ran off; we’re waiting for him to come back.”

I tell her I hope he shows up soon, do my business, and head back to the PCT. About 100 feet down the trail towards the highway, there’s the cat, crouching in the middle of the trail, meowing at me. I stop and talk to him, making kitty cooing noises, but he’s clearly afraid of me and jumps off the trail when I take a couple steps forward.

I turn around and jog back to the trailhead. “I saw your cat! Just down the trail towards the highway.”

The woman follows me back to the PCT and I show her where I saw him. He’s not there, but I spot him another fifty feet down the trail. “There he is! I’ll let you go ahead of me,” I tell her. She walks towards him and follows him off the trail while he meows; I sneak past them and continue down the trail. Seems like a happy ending.

I cross the highway and then reach the turn-off towards Shelter Cove. I get a beautiful view of Odell Lake, then descend through the woods, cross some railroad tracks, and emerge onto a paved road about a mile from the resort. I catch some nobo thru-hikers and we chat on the way in.

At Shelter Cove, I find Ben’s car immediately but not Ben himself. I drop my pack, pick up my last resupply box, and buy a root beer float. Ben materializes right about when I’ve finished the float with his backpack full of freshly-picked huckleberries.

We drive to Eugene for a tasty meal, and then home to Portland.

I pack up and hike through the forest. There’s not much to say about hiking through the forest that I haven’t already said a hundred times on this blog. There are so many ponds and lakes that I stop pausing to take photos of them, pretty though they are. They all look more or less the same.

Eventually I emerge from the forest into ex-forest — a recovering burn. It’s the middle of the day, and it’s hot out — this too is more of the same. Putting it like that makes it sound like I’m not enjoying it! I am, though, and also I am not. I am capable of these continuous twenty-plus-mile days, but I also wish I could give myself a break — but I also want to get to Shelter Cove as soon as possible so I can go home. But… I’m also sad to be ending my trip. Hah! I contain multitudes. My feet hurt. Etc.

Soon after the end of the burn, I stumble across some trail magic — a 2016 thru-hiker and his parents. I gratefully sit down, drink a soda, and eat a whole bunch of potato chips and grapes. I’ve been hungry all day, but my remaining snacks have to last me all the way to Shelter Cove, and I’m starting to feel a tiny bit anxious about that.

Then it’s back into the woods. I walk and listen to podcasts. Eight more miles, and then I turn off trail down a quarter-mile spur to Bobby Lake, 24-and-change miles from Mac Lake, where I camped last night. There’s at least four tents nearby, but I find a spot to pitch mine. I watch the sky turn pink while I cook dinner. I rummage in my food bag. I’ll have plenty to eat tomorrow — it’s just that it’ll be the dregs of my food bag: all the stuff I’m really pretty sick of. I curl up in my sleeping bag and stay up too late reading MaddAddam.

I leave the meadow and pass through some forest, then look down onto a big open valley through which the trail winds, green trees and hills on one side and lava rock glinting in the sun on the other. There are lovely views of South Sister, and little peaks of Middle Sister still visible as well. Ahead of me, Mount Bachelor.

I follow the trail back into the woods and climb up and down. Sometimes I hallucinate manmade object amidst the trees: a dead white log in the distance looks like a silver car, parked incongruously next to the trail. A burned-out stump looks like a black coat hung up on a coat rack. Another log looks like a roll of paper towels abandoned by a camper.

The nobos told me there were mosquitos south of here, so this morning I preemptively put on my bugnet pants. So far so not-necessary, but I do get some compliments on my style from other hikers. After a pair asks me if my pants mean there are bugs north, I take them off to get a little extra breeze directly on my legs; it’s warm, though maybe a little cooler than it’s been.

Not too much later, I put them back on. I’m entering a stretch of trail littered with lakes and little ponds — prime mosquito territory. They’re here, buzzing around my ears, but in numbers not nearly as overwhelming as in Washington.

I choose a lake a little over 20 miles from last night’s meadow to camp at. I’ve seen a million nobos today (slight exaggeration), but no one’s camped here. I eat two dinners — I have one to spare, and maybe hiker hunger has finally really kicked in. My food bag is getting pretty light — I hope I have enough to last me two more days.

I realize when I’m falling asleep after dinner that it’s my first night camping totally alone since before Olallie Lake. My second-to-last night on trail.

I finally leave camp at 9:30. The trail crosses the road and then leads right back up into the lava rock. For a mile and a half or so, I climb around on the lava where the trail leads me, and then I walk through some forest, and then through a relatively recent burn. I feel good, but I also feel tired. I think about doing this for five months, if I were thru-hiking, and it’s hard to imagine. I feel more capable now than I think I was in 2015, and I’m enjoying the rhythm I’ve got going now that I’ve pushed past the loneliness I was feeling earlier (or else J.’s occasional presence has alleviated it — also possible), but I also kinda can’t wait to be back home with my cats and my bathroom and my closet full of soft dry clothing.

All that said, I am having a fantastic time hiking today. The trail gains some elevation and then it’s semi-alpine and then it’s alpine, but it’s central Oregon alpine — more lava rock, paths that wend their way up and down between and over the rocks, tons of colors, red and brown and black and the blue, blue sky. On the northern horizon, Mount Washington and Three-Fingered Jack and Mount Jefferson stand in a row. In the foreground, the beautiful lava rock. Oregon is so stunning! It has this undeserved reputation as the “boring” state on the PCT, and today I have no idea why.

I reach the northern boundary of the Obsidian Limited Entry Area — PCT hikers are allowed to pass through without a permit, but can’t stop to camp or leave the trail corridor. The PCT is only within the area for a couple of miles, and it seems unlikely to me that these couple of miles will be much different from the rest of the trail around here — but I’m wrong. The trail is littered with pieces of obsidian that glint and glimmer in the sun. Everything around me sparkles!

I pass pretty ponds and walk through lovely green meadows. I stop to filter some water at a spring that emerges from the earth underneath a red and yellow rock and then flows past wildflowers. I pass Obsidian Falls. I admire South Sister.

In the evening I descend through a recent burn to another pretty meadow with a stream running through it. There are several nobos camped nearby, and they invite me to join them. I pitch my tent and cook dinner and chat. After everyone disappears into their tents, I stay up too late in mine reading The Year of the Flood.

In the morning I tell J. I want to be at the trailhead by 10. We get coffee and pastries again and pull up at the trailhead at 10:02. Pretty good! He’s also let me borrow his running shorts for the rest of my hike (it turns out they’re really comfy, and I want to see how they do on trail — men’s running shorts; who knew? My merino shorts have been slowly disintegrating, and it seems like a good idea to explore my options) and helped me tape some medical gauze pads over my heat rash to hopefully absorb some sweat and protect it from rubbing.

I cross the highway and walk through more sandy burn, then a little bit of more established forest. The first few miles pass quickly, and then I reach the dirt road turn off for Big Lake Youth Camp, a summer camp that offers very generous hospitality to PCT hikers — a cabin with laundry and showers, and donation-based meals three times a day. I want to stop by to fill up my water bottles — and maybe stay for lunch.

The dirt road leads past a logging operation. I can hear heavy equipment and the workers’ music playing. I follow other hikers’ footprints in the dust. A deer has gone this way, too.

At the camp, a cheerful staff member makes me a name tag and points me towards the hiker cabin, which is full of nobos. I fill my water bottles and loiter until lunch — burritos, fresh fruit, and one very tasty cookie per person. After lunch, I head out along the trail that leads back to the PCT southbound.

More sandy burn — but eventually the trees get greener and taller — at least briefly, and then I’m back in the burn. There are views of Mount Washington and, increasingly, North and Middle Sister. I call Ben and we chat while I hike about what we’ve been up to and about meeting at Odell Lake at the end of the week. I’ll go that far, I’ve decided. Today is a decision point — McKenzie Pass was my original goal destination, but I’ve got a box at Shelter Cove (Odell Lake) that I’d like to go get. J. is doing some runs out of McKenzie Pass today, so I’ll see him there tonight. I could just get a ride home from him. But I’m having a great time on trail lately.

Soon the trail leads past big lava flows, black piles of rock here and there. In the distance I see the big lava field I know I’ll be crossing; the trail winds it’s way there slowly, but for now the tread is soft and sandy with occasional bits of pumice.

Then it leads up into the lava, a path cut into the rock. The trail tread is rocky and uneven, made of loose pieces of pumice and leading up and over and around and through all kinds of lava formations. It’s beautiful and alien and stark and so, so cool. I timed it exactly right, somehow — it’s getting to be evening, and the light is beautiful. It’s not too hot and there’s a nice breeze.

I look up from my umpteenth photo and there’s J. running up the trail towards me. I’m just a couple miles from the trailhead now; he gives me his car key in case I need or want it when I get there. I beat him there by ten minutes or so (he ran up to Belknap Crater) and am glad to be able to sit in a seat while I wait for him to finish his run.

We pitch our tents at the trailhead and walk up to the road to watch the sunset and admire the glowing Sisters, then cook dinner and go to sleep.

I enter the burn pretty immediately — last year’s burn. The ground is black and everything is covered in soot, but here and there are clumps of green beargrass. I can see the dry burnt tufts of last year’s growth, but a significant fraction of the beargrass is recovering and regrowing just like I assume it does after the snow melts every year — new green growth straight up out of the burnt tufts.

There’s a dead horse in Russell Creek. I’ve known about it for a few days — there are plenty of funny and punny comments on Guthook about leading a horse to water, beating a dead horse, etc. A little ways before the creek, I pass a sign from the Forest Service: “Animal carcass in the area. You may see increased animal activity in the area as a result.” In the still-dim morning light, I feel just a tiny bit anxious.

At the creek, I try not to look for the horse, but I’m a curious human and can’t help myself. It’s in the water just below where the trail crosses. Its head is hidden below a rock, and its body is bloated and round. It looks like a sort of fuzzy brown rock, with something green starting to grow over the top.

The creek is pretty low this early in the morning (it’s 6 o’clock), so rather than trying to climb over the big boulders upstream to find a perfect rock-hop, I ford the creek right at the trail. The water is only about ankle-deep till I’m halfway across, and then I finish the crossing with an easy rock-hop. From the other side, I can see the horse’s tail and hind legs lying in the water. The trail up from the water is narrow; I imagine the horse fell from the trail into the creek. Pretty terrible.

I continue through the burn as the sky turns from pink to blue. I’m starting to feel warm in my fleece and puffy, but I also keep walking into strange patches of cold air — microclimates related to the burn or the shape of the mountain — I don’t know. My left Achilles tendon is buggin’ me a bit, but it doesn’t seem to be getting any worse, and my current policy is to not really pay my pain any mind unless the same spot hurts more for more than a day.

I cross another creek and push through some big bushes trying to eat the trail. I’m through the burn, at least this section of it, and climbing through old, thick, dark, dim forest. The sun is still low in the sky and hasn’t touched this part of the woods yet.

I keep walking, and at exactly 10 o’clock I reach Shale Lake, 10.8 miles into my day. 10 by 10! I stop long enough to filter some water, take a photo or two of Mount Jefferson’s reflection in the lake, and pull off my fleece and puffy and put on my bra and shirt. Then I continue on through some pretty semi-alpine stuff and into an older burn — white skeletal trees and lots of green undergrowth, plus short evergreens two or three or four feet tall. It’s quite pretty. There are also beautiful views, including a glimpse of North and Middle Sisters.

My next stop is Rockpile Lake at mile 18 or so. I filter some more water and continue on into the heat of the day. It’s really hot, and in this burn there’s very little shade. My Achilles is feeling better though — my feet are generally sore, but not specifically. A few more miles and I stop at my last water source, a small pond surrounded by burned forest. I crouch by the water and enjoy a little fantasy about being, like, a peasant in a fantasy novel set in Arthurian times, being dirty and sweaty and traveling through the landscape and, you know, being on a quest or seeking my fortune or something. It feels like the whole world is this burn.

I set off with three and a half liters, probably more than I need for the last ten miles of the day, but it’s really hot and I’d rather have too much than not enough. A mile later, J. runs up behind me; he’s been running a loop around Three-Fingered Jack today that finishes on the PCT. “Do you have any extra water?” he asks. I give him a liter. That worked out.

The burn continues (the burn is the whole world, after all). I leave J. sitting on a log drinking water and catching his breath; he’ll pass me again in a few minutes. We’re climbing up to a pass right below Three-Fingered Jack, which definitely has more than three fingers if it has any. I keep on keepin’ on. I take a lot of photos. I reach the top of the ridge and cross over to the other side, traversing a slope across stream beds where in other seasons snowmelt clearly flows — the trail goes up and down into and out of these paths.

My feet are really hurting by now, but my morale is pretty good. Jefferson is in the distance now, looking beautiful but surprisingly small. I’ve come a long way today! I listen to podcasts and work on maintaining forward momentum.

On through the burn — sandy brown trail, white trees, green undergrowth, blue sky. A few miles from Santiam Pass, the heat rash on my back starts to hurt again. I stop and strip off my shirt and hike in my bra. If I straighten my spine and keep my shoulders back, I can kind of create a little airflow gap between my back and my pack, but then it jostles against the rash and maybe that’s worse. Honestly, that pain distracts me a bit from my sore feet, which is kind of nice.

I hike on. The sky starts to turn pink. The Three Sisters, and maybe Broken Top? — I don’t actually recognize the mountains down here as well as I’d like to think I do — hang out on the horizon in the decreasing distance. I check Guthook for the umpteenth time to see how close I am to the trailhead, and it shows me off the trail. I panic for a moment and find a weird little triangle of trail on Gaia; this trail will lead me back to the PCT, but it’ll add a little distance. I’m super cranky and wondering how I missed a junction. What the heck!? Then I get back to the PCT and it’s clear there’s been a reroute that’s not yet reflected in Guthook; the old PCT has logs strewn across it to block the way. Sigh.

Just a couple miles left — let’s go. I stop to dig in my pack for my external battery (my phone is almost dead; I’ve been texting with J. as I approach the trailhead) and my headlamp (just in case).

Half a mile from the trailhead, I hear a dog barking in one direction and an odd whistle in the other direction. Oh — it’s J. He walked in to meet me. He’s feeling pretty beat up from his run, so we hobble out together to the trailhead. It’s not quite dark when we finally arrive. I have him take a victory photo. Thirty two point four miles, my friends. I’ve never moved my feet so far in one day before.

They hurt a lot. I collapse into J.’s car and we head into Sisters for food and showers and beds.

I set out around nine. The trail leads through shrubby forest, past pretty lakes. Lake after lake, gnarled dead white trees, plenty of green ones too, blue sky. It’s hot and dusty, but what else is new? I’m used to be being sweaty and dirty — it doesn’t bother me.

I meet a backpacker with a beautiful husky and give the dog a scritch behind the ears. He asks me, “are you looking for a sexy guy with a spoon?”

“Um, no?”

“Oh, he said he had a friend coming down the trail this way.”

I shrug and wish him happy trails and continue on. A mile or so further, I check my phone for signal and get a text from J.’s InReach asking if I’ve passed the Breitenbush Lake trailhead yet. (He’s planning on starting a run from there, south on the PCT — we’ll probably run into each other again today.) I reply that I haven’t, and he texts back, “ok, I have your spoon.” Oh!! I must have left it at Olallie Lake — J. had been using it to flip pancakes. I hadn’t realized yet that it was missing.

I walk less than a quarter mile and there he is sitting on a rock and admiring a view of Mount Jefferson. He’d walked in from the trailhead, spoon in hand. “Oh hey! That guy you talked to thought you were sexy.” He laughs. He hands me my spoon and we walk out together; I stop at his car to refill my water bottles from his gallon of water and drink one last La Croix from his cooler. The car next to his has a dusty sticker on the back reading “Let’s Advenpurr Through The Meowtains.”

J. runs ahead and I follow the trail as it climbs through more scrubby forest, past more pretty lakes. There are some melting snow patches, lots of green covering the ground, wildflowers, and that blue, blue sky. It’s so pretty! I try my phone again and whaddya know, I have some data signal for the first time since Timberline. I sit next to the trail, lean against my pack, and take a little time to check my email and call my mom. Weekend backpackers and day hikers pass by; one asks me if I’m okay. “Oh yeah! So good!”

When I walk on, the trail just gets better and better. The trees thin out and there are more patches of snow. I love alpine environments so, so much. I am giddy every time I turn around; there’s Mount Hood in the distance, stunning as always. A red cinder cone a little closer, and closer still the trail winding its way up, through beautiful rock formations and across snow patches and around small ponds and under little rivulets of water that sparkle and shimmer in the sun. I am so happy.

Then I crest the top and there is Mount Jefferson, suddenly huge and close. A beautiful bowl down below between me and the mountain, full of trees and meadows and lakes and streams. I grin and start down into it.

More wildflowers, more trees, more beautiful lakes and streams. I’m moving slowly not because I hurt but because everything is beautiful. I follow the path set before me and enjoy every goddamn step.

…At least until the heat rash on my back makes itself known. My pack jostles against my back just a tiny bit with every step, and suddenly it’s excruciating. When I touch it, it feels like a bad sunburn. I put some salve on my fingers and reach up under my shirt and bra to spread it every where I can reach; then I decide to just take off my shirt and hike in my sports bra for a while. My shirt has some cotton content and is soaked with my sweat, which is certainly not helping the situation. The salve and a bit of air on my back do help somewhat.

I meet J. towards the end of my walk through the beautiful bowl; he’s been lingering because he wants to take a detour on his way back to the trailhead but didn’t want to miss me. He gives me some beta on the couple miles ahead of me, and we solidify plans for tomorrow. I have this idea that I’m gonna do a 30. A 30-mile day, that is. That would get me just about to Santiam Pass, where J. is planning to park tomorrow for a run around Three-Fingered Jack. If I can make it, I can get a ride from him into Sisters or Bend.

I walk just a little bit further to a pretty, milky stream and follow it to a largish tentsite. This is where J. suggested I camp tonight; I’m still about a mile from Russell Creek, but I’m just about to enter a burn area and there aren’t really any good spots to camp. The tentsite here is already occupied by a couple nobos; there’s room for more tents, but I spend a few minutes looking around nearby before I ask them if I can share. They’re happy to share; I find a spot and lay out my groundsheet and pad and sleeping bag to cowboy camp — I figure that’ll make it a little easier to get going in the morning.

I wash my sports bra in the stream and hang it to dry; hopefully that will help remedy the heat rash and chafing and make me more comfortable tomorrow. I make dinner. A few mosquitos come out around dusk; I’ll sleep with my headnet on. I chat for a while with a nobo section hiker, Dash. Then I head to bed. I’m gonna set my alarm for 5 tomorrow morning. Here goes nothing!

I follow the trail through diverse forest — sometimes thick and dark, with tall green trees, and sometimes with lots of sky, dead white trees and smaller young ones. There’s an old burn section that’s been salvage logged, full of fireweed — that’s where I see my first glimpse of the summit of Mount Jefferson, and a sliver of its side.

More forest walking, and then a dirt road and a little handwritten sign in the woods inviting hikers to the Ollalie Lake Resort store. I turn left and arrive at the lake and the store — and there’s a beautiful view of Jefferson on the other side of the lake.

I buy a beer and a carton of chocolate milk at the store and sit on the porch making conversation with friendly visitors, including a five-year-old boy who’s very excited about having caught two fish in the lake today. After an hour or so, J. arrives with a new fuel canister for me and my new size 10 shoes. I try them on and am a little astonished to discover that they actually fit pretty much perfectly.

I pass the afternoon reading, mostly, admiring the view, and chatting a little with other hikers. J. goes for a run up a nearby big butte. I snack on fruit and cook dinner and pitch my tent in the “day use” area where the resort staff generously allow hikers to camp. The sun sets and Mount Jefferson glows over the lake for a few minutes. J. pitches his tent near mine and cooks dinner on his car camping stove. Everything gets quiet after dark. We sleep.

I walk the forested trail beside Timothy Lake and then further south. Three or four miles into my day, I cross Forest Road 42, which I must have biked down on my short bike tour in September 2015 — I remember the beautiful PCT arch across the trail. On that trip I noticed every PCT trailhead or marker I passed, thinking I’d be getting back on trail when I got to the Sierra.

Shortly after the road is the junction for Joe Graham Horse Camp, just off trail. I’d heard about trail magic here from a few nobos, and indeed there’s a little laminated sign at the junction. When I arrive, trail angel Connie shows me the little pop-up tent she’s got set up with a sandwich bar (including vegetarian deli meat!), chips, and a cooler full of sodas. Awesome. I sit and eat and chat with nobos. After a while it occurs to me to ask Connie for an ice pack or some ice — she not only has an ice pack, she also offers me some menthol analgesic pads, even putting some in a little ziplock for me to take with me. I don’t know why some folks are so nice to dirty hikers, but I sure appreciate it.

My shin continues to feel pretty okay as I hike on, but I do get some pain, off and on, at the inside of my ankle, where my posterior tibial tendon attaches at my accessory navicular — the injury I had fall 2016 – spring 2017. All the more reason to take it easy today.

I descend towards Warm Springs River. A bear runs across the trail downhill from me. “Hi bear! Bye bear!” I call after it. I turn around and there’s another sobo behind me. “Oh hey! I just saw a bear!”

“Neat!” he says. We exchange trail names (his is Walkabout) and then he pulls ahead — I’m moving a little slowly.

There’re several nobos hanging out at Warm Springs River, which despite the name is very cold — perfect for soaking tired and sore feet. I spend 45 minutes sitting on the log bridge across the river with my feet in and out of the water. Just as I’m getting ready to leave, a very bold or very stupid chipmunk runs right over my pack, which I’m currently loading with filtered water, and nearly up my leg. I yelp.

The next water is nine miles away; the next campsite is six and a half. Uphill. So, loaded with water for dry camping, I climb through the forest to Pinhead Saddle, where I find a campsite and pitch my tent. On the way up, a garter snake slithers across the trail in front of me and startles the bejeezus outta me. So today I’ve been scared by a wee snake and a chipmunk, and I just waved at a bear.

I’ve been snacking a lot today, and I’m feeling too lazy to cook dinner. I eat a few hundred calories worth of hazelnuts instead, finally finishing off the little bag of them that I’ve been carrying since White Pass. Nuts always seem like a good idea when I’m buying food for resupplies, but I never really want to eat them on trail for some reason — but they’re too expensive not to eat. Sunk cost!

I check Guthook — I hiked 18 miles today; so much for an easy day. Easy by thru-hiker standards, but I’m no thru-hiker. My feet are sore, though only, thankfully, in a general way. Tomorrow I’ll hit Olallie Lake in just 12 miles and change — and maybe I really will take it easy tomorrow, and stop there.