Y2Y 1999 Update #1

July 9 - This is my 3rd day of the summer's trek, but the first day with the full pack. I'm excited to finally leave the crowds of Jasper's front country behind, to set out into the backcountry, to get going after weeks of planning. This first leg of the trip is on a trail called the North Boundary Trail. I'm walking an abandoned road after crossing the roaring Snake Indian River. The road is slowly reverting to "trail", and its presence is disappointing, but the place feels wild. I'm seeing bear scat every quarter mile. Wolf and moose tracks abound. I scare up several deer.

Today is a woods walk, following the remnant of the old road through aspens, spruce and fir. The views are of the forest, the bunchflowers, and the occasional wood lily. I only walk 11 miles, but feel slow and out of shape. I'm glad when I reach the first designated campsite. But I'm not glad with what I find.

Campers before me have left a bag of garbage hanging a few feet off the ground. I check it out; mostly cans and bottles, and hoist it high and out of reach. There are big globs of toilet paper everywhere. One of my pet peeves. Most humans just don't know how to shit in the woods anymore. You can't leave toilet paper. Bury it and the critters dig it up. Anybody who spends time in the woods knows that. You either have to burn it, or carry it out. Burning is difficult at the time of use, so what I do is zip it into a plastic bag and either burn it in my stove (the great little Sierra Zip Stove) or make a small fire every few days to burn up my garbage. Tonight I build a small fire to burn up other people's garbage.

I take a bath in the nearby stream. It feels fresh off the glacier, but invigorates my tired bones. After quite some time of cleaning up the place, it starts to look and feel better. I have my traditional first-night-out dinner, macaroni and cheese, and curl up for the night.

July 10 -A beautiful day as I hop across the creek and make my way down to the bluff overlooking the Snake Indian River. Here I can see the Shale Banks down and across the river. These are high, scree covered slopes; steep and smooth looking from my view. Its not often that you see mountain goats sharing the same slope with bighorn sheep. But here are two nanny goats, each with a kid, and a handful of sheep. I watch them through the lens of my telephoto.

The trail enters the forest again. It's easy, but I'm feeling stiff. I put myself on auto-pilot and zip off the miles until I reach a side trail to Snake Indian Falls. In minutes I'm standing with my mouth open gawking at the immense falls. The big river pours over a 60 foot drop creating a roar that shakes the entire bluff I now stand on. Mist cloaks the valley from the pounding water, and a rainbow rides like bronc rider in the swirling cloud. The noise is overwhelming. Even after I leave, I carry the pounding in my ears.

I'm walking through the green tunnel again and I should be happy. But an unusual feeling has crept into my day. I'm feeling uneasy. Unsure. I'm not aware of anything out of sync, but feel like I am. It's hard to explain, this feeling riding with me. But I know I don't like it.

Toward mid-afternoon I enter Horseshoe Meadows, wide open clearings with healthy patches of willows. Just beyond is a wonderful campsite overlooking the river. I stop here and make myself at home. I wash out some clothes and take a bath. Later I wander up and down the flats along the river. The spaciousness is invigorating, but I'm still feeling "off". Loneliness pulls at me. Something isn't right. I can't seem to shake out of it.

July 11 -  I've been sleeping like a dead man these last two nights, and sleeping in past my usual first-light awakenings. Who knows, perhaps the heavy pack I carry is adding to my sleep time. When I crawl out of the tent the morning stills holds firmly to its cool freshness. I scan the flats of the Snake Indian River below me, expecting to see a moose, or maybe a bear out there grazing. It's a vast view, yet nothing moves but the silty, braided river.

The trail calls, and in no time I'm walking north. As I come into the expansive willow flats bordering Willow Creek I come across a moose paddle. It's a big one, but later I find three more, one of which must weigh at least 20 pounds. I take pictures, but there's no way I can carry them along.

The area I walk now is very open; such a contrast from the woods walking of the past couple days. It's an area of marshes and vast patches of stunted, and some not-so-stunted willows. I can't even see the river, but I know its off to my left a couple miles away. The trail is very well worn, though I haven't seen people in 3 days. It cuts across the flats and starts to traverse the base of the wooded hills.

Through the forest the past few days I've given my lungs a workout shouting "Whoa, bear!" "Hey, bear!" "Comin' through". This is to warn the bears of my presence so I don't surprise them. Sometimes, for a change, I yell something else. Sometimes its just nonsense like, "Amiskwi" (Stoney Indian for "beaver") or "hedgehog", or "toad alert" (when I see one of the frequent resident toads). Sometimes I yell out the names of the flowers. The key is to make noise. Gives the bears a chance to back off away from the trail before I get there. Yesterday there was tons of scat. Today, none.

A patch of grass next to the trail is all matted down. Something large has rested here last night. Just passed this I come upon a section of dead tree. It's a large chunk of rotting wood. Not unusual, but it has been turned over and pulled apart. Bear sign.

For a time I resume my bear hollers. But my mind drifts. I become mesmerized by the rhythm of the trail, this easy pace, the day itself. I'm walking the edge of the open, not paying attention to the dense fir and aspen saplings up the hillside from me. All is very peaceful, but in seconds the mood is broken.

The suddenness of the bear's roar takes me by surprise. He woofs and grunts. Not making noise, I've walked up to within 40 feet of a now-angry bear. I can't see him through the trees, but I know this sound. It's not the kind of sound you forget. It raises my hackles and draws me to a halt. I reach for the can of pepper spray at my belt.

Straining to make out the bear, yet at the same time hoping I won't see it, I'm subjected to a stream of grunts and growls, coughs and clacks. Three times the bear rushes down slope toward me, crashing through the tiny trees in its false charge. Each time I brace to face him, expecting the rush from the dense foliage. Each time he turns back, taking his rage out on the trees, ripping up the ground and slapping at the woods in anger.

Finally there is silence. A still, wire-tight tenseness fills the air. Talking quietly, I begin to move slowly down the trail. As I walk, neck craned back at the wooded slope, my heart begins to pound. I realize I've been quite calm through all of this, but now a sick fear creeps up my spine and digs its jagged fangs into my suddenly chilled blood.

I resume my bear hollers. Wouldn't you? But in doing so, I scare away everything else. The route is good and offers more views than yesterday. The wildflowers are looking good, too. I hike on to another nice campsite. It's right next to the river, with a nice eddy for bathing, lots of flat spots for the tent, and it feels good. I stop early and spend the rest of the day lounging in the sun. The uneasiness of yesterday is gone.

July 12 -  Today I saw my first hikers. Two Germans hiking the opposite way. We chatted a bit and then hiked on. It felt strange to see others. I didn't feel as isolated as I had before. But my restlessness has returned. I felt anxious all day. Can't pinpoint what is bothering me, and that is troubling. In the past, I've always slipped right into the mood of the wild places. This feeling is keeping me from connecting. I feel out of tune with my surroundings.

The trail was good and I passed a lovely little lake with grand views before coming to the campsite at Blue Creek. This was a dump. Part of the hiker site was flooded and the equestrian site was trashed. I made camp and tried to relax, but can't reach into where I want to be; where I need to be.

July 13 -  It's a cold morning. The log I use to cross a braid of Blue Creek is covered with water and I worry about ice. But the footing is good and I make my way across. I warm up fast and after crossing the big main stream on a bridge I'm cruising along through the waking forest.

I slip into the silence of the trail, and wish my own footsteps could be softer. I'm thinking about the stillness of the morning when up ahead on the path, movement catches my eye. A wolf is walking toward me. I freeze. A moment later she sees me and also comes to a halt. She stares into my eyes, a burning question. I gaze back in awe.

The seconds slip by. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. I will her to stay. Hold that perfect pose. Let me look at you. But she knows my kind and calmly turns and disappears into the forest. Not running but an easy trot. She leaves me behind to think of those eyes and thrill to the memory of her presence.

The trail enters an area of sloughs and small lakes created by the ever-changing river. I spook a cow and calf moose and watch them take to the water, the little one swimming strong behind her mom. I take lots of pictures today, feeling enchanted by the land I walk through.

Three Slides campsite is in a lovely location to end the day's hike. It lies on the edge of a pond with vast views of the surrounding peaks. Mergansers and sandpipers abound. And mosquitoes, too. But I put up my bug palace and lounge about, enjoying the views. Later I notice that bears have hung out here, too. There is plenty of sign: scat, diggings, and a stump has been pulled apart. Hopefully they've gotten their fill and moved on to better digs.

July 14 -  Rain blew in last night. I had placed my tent well, under the protection of a big Doug fir. So only half the tent got wet. It poured and poured. The noise kept me from sleeping as soundly as I like. The morning brought a gray drizzle. I walked in rain gear all day. The trail was sloppy with mud, but made for good tracking. I note the passing of bears, wolves, and moose.

At Oatmeal Camp I pitch the tent under a "dry tree", another fir whose limbs act like a big umbrella. Later the rain turns to snow

July 15 - Cold morning with clouds hanging low over the valley. Patches of snow dot the meadow, but the peaks hold a more thorough dusting. Flurries swirl around me as I set out toward Snake Indian Pass. The trail is swampy and slow going, but again I see plenty of evidence of grizz, black bear, and wolf.

The gradual ascent warms me, and I gain more open terrain the higher I get. The wind buffets me and I give up on my bear hollers. In a contest for volume the wind is an easy winner. But I'm alert, watching the patches of willow and stunted spruce, scanning the open slopes. Surely I'll see some wildlife this morning.

And there they are. Three woodland caribou stare curiously in my direction. I've never before seen these kinds of animals. They're larger than I thought they'd be. They're also more beautiful with their massive racks and tuxedo-like coats. I continue tramping toward them as they crane their necks to keep track of the strange human fighting against the wind. Finally, as if on cue, they bolt together into the trees.

The pass itself is broad and open. No telling where the actual top is. It reminds me of Maligne Pass last year in another part of Jasper National Park. The trail is better here. I stop in a clump of krumholz, out of the wind and falling snow, and have a snack and take some pictures. The clouds are higher now and I can make out a couple of the lower peaks. Mostly just the sides of mountains.

The path becomes a ribbon of muck on the north side of the pass. I pick my way along and eventually come to Byng campsite where I pitch the tent under another "dry tree". The rain and snow has stopped. I'm wondering if it will clear or not.

I'm surprised when I see two folks fording the creek . Trish and Jerry (and dog, Sitka) are out for several weeks. I invite them to share the campsite and soon we're chatting and joking, comparing gear, and swapping trail stories. My tongue is wagging non-stop enjoying the conversation; so nice to have company for a change.

July 16 -  The skies cleared last night bringing a clear, crisp morning. Facing an icy ford first thing, I poked around camp waiting for the day to warm up a bit before finally bidding farewell to Jerry and Trish, wading the stream, and continuing down the trail.

Several miles brought me to Twintree Lake, a large pasty blue gem set in the forested bases of the snowcapped peaks. Here I come upon a warden's cabin. (In Canada the park rangers are called wardens.) Nobody home, so I sit on the porch with its nice view of the lake to eat my lunch. As I munch on my crackers and peanut butter I keep hearing an unusual sound. I can't put my finger on it, but its out of place.

Nearby is a large woodshed. I walk toward it and the sound increases. I realize the sound I hear is gnawing, coming from inside the shed. I open the door. There at my feet, gobbling away at a piece of plywood, is one of the biggest porcupines I've ever seen. My first thought is to get a picture, but then I realize I should probably try to get this guy out of here before he does further damage to government property. I open the door wide, but the porky spooks and climbs up the pile of firewood into a high corner. And thats where I leave him.

Later, a couple kilometers away, I come upon another porcupine. This one is very small, and its fur looks soft enough to pet. I take some pictures and continue around the north end of the lake to the campsite on the banks of the river flowing out from the lake. It's a nice spot to spend the afternoon. I take a bath, wash out some clothes, and explore the area.

It's a lovely place. I should be in heaven. But the odd out-of-place feeling has returned. I can't get comfortable. I feel uneasy. I try to talk myself out of it, to reason myself into peaceful bliss, but nothing works. If anything, I feel worse at the end of the day. Something isn't right.

I hit the hay, finding peace in a sound sleep. But after a few hours something wakes me. It trips over the line from my tent. I perk up. It brushes against the tent. I grab my pepper spray. It sniffs at the tent. I freeze in alert readiness. I'm sure its a bear. I can hear it moving toward the front of the tent. Peering out I can see a dull outline. Not big enough for a bear. I flick the flashlight, lighting up a granddaddy of huge porcupine.

Porcupines have a taste for salt. Anything with salt is a meal for them: boots, sandals, walking stick, pack straps, etc. Having a porky in camp can be damaging to gear. I make some noise and chase this one away. Then after thinking about it, I put my boots into the tent, hang my pack, and the ice-ax which has already been chewed on, and then crawl back into bed. But the porky returns. I chase him off three more times throughout the night before I'm allowed to go back to sleep.

July 17 -  In the morning, I'm still in my tent when I hear splashing in the river. Something large splashing in the river. Something coming over to my side of the river! I poke my head out just in time to see a mountain goat climbing from the water. He clambers up the bank, shakes himself dry like a dog, and starts trotting for the next mountain range. Keep in mind that this is down in the forest, far from the rocky cliffs of the peaks. I'm excited to no end. Of course goats traverse the lowlands to get from one mountain to the next, but how often does anyone see them? I count myself lucky.

I'm feeling more like my old self this morning, walking strong and feeling confident about the weeks ahead. But the miles wear me down. By the time I reach my camp on Chown Creek I'm feeling anxious, an unnamed torment pulling at my heart. A storm blows in bringing a full rainbow over the valley.

Not sure what I should do. I can't shake this growing dread. Perhaps I should pull out when I resupply tomorrow. No, I can't do that. Maybe I should try another couple weeks. Let's see what tomorrow brings.

July 18 - A beautiful morning as I make my way up the broad flood plane of Chown Creek. Views of the surrounding mountains, hanging glaciers, and the vast plane are inspiring. The creek is very braided. I ford it twice, trying for the easiest walking. Farther upstream I have to backtrack when I find the stream too deep and fast. I retreat to the braided section and start looking for an old trail up to Bess Pass.

The trail is overgrown, but easily followed. I climb steadily up to the pass. Here I leave the park, expecting to get grand views. But the trail here is obscured by high alders and bush willow. I'm closed in. There is plenty of grizz sign, so I keep up a good volume of hollers as I push my way up the faded trail. I'm climbing out of the pass when I realize I've totally missed the trail down to the Holmes River. Nothing to do but turn around. I backtrack to the park boundary looking closely for any sign of another trail. Nothing.

I've been told there is a trail down to the Holmes. I'm expecting to rendezvous with Roy & Jill Howard, two Y2Y supporters who've volunteered to bring a food package to me at a logging road just a couple miles away. No trail, but heck, its only a couple miles. I'll just bushwhack down to the river.

Easier said than done. I have no idea that it will be a six hour bushwhack from Hell. I fight my way through devils club, up and over dense blowdowns. I wade through the streams, back and forth. I find remnants of a trail. I lose it. Later I find another piece. I lose it, too. I push my way through dense brush and fight my way down the steep slope. My legs and arms are bleeding and raw by the time I reach the river. But they look better than my spirits. I'm as low as I think I can go.

The river is too high to ford. I try three times and each time nearly lose it. Examining the map I see there is a bridge shown on my map. I flounder along into an old clearcut and then an overgrown logging road. It leads me right to where the bridge used to be. The water is even deeper here with water from two more streams. I search out a log jam and with my heart in my mouth make it across the river. The fight through the alders and new growth to the main logging road is short, but takes my last ounces of strength. I stagger out onto the narrow lane.

By now I'm beat. My body is bloody, but in more serious shape is my soul. I've always been able to take days like this and continue on. I've always taken the down times as just a part of the way. You have to accept the ups and downs with wilderness travel. But there is something else weighing on me today. It's something I can't see, something I can't put a finger on. I know something isn't right. I feel a darkness hanging over my trail ahead. I have no idea what it is, but I know that if I continue on, I will not be coming back. The ominous feeling has grown stronger each day. I promised Leslie I would come home. I need to listen.

Looking back up toward the pass I whisper aloud, "OK. OK. I'm goin' home. Besides there's no way in Hell I'm going to walk back up that with 12 days of food on my back!"

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