A Walk Home in the Snow

This is a rewrite of the second part of an earlier blog entitled, "Preserving Fire Through Gail Force Winds, Rain and Snow". I felt that I did not capture the beauty and truth I felt on the walk back down the mountain that night via my writing.

Doing the adventures is a blast, but I'm also finding a great challenge in writing about them afterward. I try to find ways to capture the adventure that is both compelling and educational. Here's a better attempt.

I was tired. I was wet. I was cold.

My plans of maintaining a fire at all cost during the catacylsmic rainfall I'd been arguing with over the last 11 hours had taken its toll. My sleeping bags were soaked, my clothing was soaked, my wood was soaked, and now snow covered the ground. Even though my weak fire had dared not sputter, I had sacrificed all semblance of sanity by protecting it over my warm clothes. Now I sat shivering and realizing I had but one choice. I had to leave, tonight.

Staying here shrouded in my dripping bags and crinkly silver emergency blanket next to a fire I'd have to stoke all night long sounded exactly the opposite of intelligent. I'd just scored 130 on an IQ test. Maybe I ought to put that demonstration of brilliant logic to use.

Donning my headlamp over my  funky red sweater cap in the pitch black of night, I cut down all of the now frozen para-cord. Its heavy weightiness made folding it up awkard and tedious. It lay like cold al dente linguine in my hands--thick and icy, bending unnaturally against itself as I wrapped it up.  My new-as-of-yesterday-tarp, now torn in multiple places and much heavier due to the ice encrusted all over it, could in no way be forced to regain the meticulously seemingly-ironed-flat folded shape it had when I purchased it. It now resembled more of a giant fitted sheet whom someone had given up on folding and just wadded up into an impatient ball. Bungee cords wrapped tightly around it enabled it to smashed down just enough to fix it to my pack.

I stuffed my water-logged wet clothes and sodden sleeping bags into their respective pouches. I donned my now dry socks and now pretty dry boots, which I'd valiantly placed next to my fire after I saturated them fighting 60 mph winds to keep up my giant super tent. I put back on my still wet, but pretty warm down jacket, my still wet fingerless gloves, my second hat and my ski pants and prepared for a long 4 mile trek back down the mountain.

The pack, now weighing in at 57# (I weighed it when I got back. It was only 40# when I left), was nearly impossible to put on. Although I truly love my Osprey women's heavy duty pack, it really is nearly impossible to put on alone without something high like a picnic table to set it on. Well, there was nothing remotely close nearby, so I had to figure out another way.

I lay the pack on it's back, the side where my back goes, beckoning me with its open spongy "hip hugging" arms with "back saving" technology. I laid into it and strapped myself in. Rolling onto my belly, I got on my knees, then leaning heavy onto my trekking poles,  righted myself up with a huge heave. Once standing, the pack's heavy weight, evenly distributed, seemed fine.

I set off along the snow dusted path into the void of night, saying goodbye to the freshly painted sign post marking campsite #11.

There was snow everywhere. Only 3000 feet up from the City of Los Angeles, I was blessed to be here observing nature as only a few ever cared to dare.

The white snow was lulling in its beauty. I intently hoped the path would still be easy to follow, but I had no idea. I decided early on that if anything about this dark downhill journey seemed to put my life in danger, I would turn back, set up camp and wait it out. Fortunately, I was faced with no such decision.

I knew the first half of the trail, about 2 miles, would be uphill and the second half all down. The downhill on the snow concerned me, but I'd have to decide that when I got there. It couldn't be worse than fighting freezing to death by staying here would be. As I trekked up the hill, the sandy path revealed itself--naked. The snow did not cling there. I was grateful.

Heading up the mountain the day before had taken me 2.5 hours to cover just over 4 miles. I'd come across ONE crossing which I considered a bit scary, a tree branch hung over the trail, making passing it precarious. A fall would send a hiker tumbling down potentially to their death. I knew I'd have to pass this again on my way up. I vowed to be super careful, but I had no idea what I was in for.

It would take me 3.5 hours to get back.

Wow! The heavy winds and rains had done great damage to the trail. I came across 3 huge branches, their spindly snow-covered fingers grasping tightly to the hillside, as they blocked my path. I picked up each 8 foot long section, tumbling it down the mountainside to clear the way. The sticky fingers seemed determined not to let go, but my determination was greater than theirs, and I prevailed. They lay lifeless, now on the other side of the trail, yearning to pull me down with them, even angry I had dared to invade their space. Beckoning, I left them wanting, and I pressed on.

Bobcat tracks preceded me. I'd guessed they were bobcat because of the 4 asymetrical toes and the 3 tiered heel pad. Later upon perusing my tracking books, then attending a tracking class, I was sure I was right. The freshly sown prints lead my way for almost the entire first 2 miles. "What was he hunting?", I thought, and I wondered if he was enjoying the snow. I never saw the bobcat, though I hoped I might.

Downed tree #2 crossed the trail. This was an entire full grown pine tree, its huge trunk thoroughly blocking the path alongside many of its spindly branches still attached. It's 2.5 foot circumference gave me one choice, to go over it, as it was too close to the ground to go under. As I looked at the angle in which it lead down the mountainside, with an inch of powder covering its length, I had visions of straddling the snow-covered tree only to slide down it to my death. I opted instead to remove my pack and go separately. Heaving my super-heavy pack over, I climbed over the massive trunk to the other side. Laying on my back to once again don the crazy thing, I righted myself with my trekking poles and continued on my way. I hoped there wouldn't be too many more of these.

No such luck. I wound up either having to cross over, belly under or remove a total of 10 trees and or branches from the path on the way back. I decided if I felt it necessary, I would leave my pack behind to retrieve in the morning. I never felt it necessary.

I approached the backside of Strawberry Peak. It stood as a massive black silhouette against the dark and starry sky. Its very blackness blocking out any semblance of there ever being a city on the other side. It seemed very far away, but I saw the pass through to the valley clearly, and I pressed on. The bobcat tracks were still guiding me.

Streams where there was before zero water, crossed the path. I gingerly crossed them, not wanting to get my boots wet. The water in my water bottle began to freeze. The tips of my fingers felt a little cold. I felt plenty warm though, and indeed my spirits were high.

As I got to the top of the mountain pass, the lights of the City lay far across many valleys before me. I still had a long way to go, and I was already almost 2 hours in. Rounding the corner, the winds picked up tremendously. I was grateful they were pressing me into the mountain rather than away from it, as otherwise, I'd likely have to abort or leave my pack behind. The snow was sent into spiraling flutters, as my hats blew off my head into the mountainside. Backtracking, I was able to retrieve them without thankfully having to undo my pack.

The dusty snow, still powder, and thankfully not ice lay below my feet. Mainly covering just outside the actual path, it stood as a reminder of the cold.

I forged on.

The bobcat no longer accompanied me.

Periodically, when traveling at night, I've learned to put my headlamp on bright and scan the area. Two little lights peering back at me indicate an animal. All night, I had seen none. Now deep in the caverns of the valley below, two eyes peered back at me, watching.

I howled. Nothing howled back.

I kept along the trail keeping my eye on the animal. Its gaze followed me, but it in no way seemed interested in a pursuit. I figured it was likely a coyote.

I kept moving.

Boredom and weariness crept in. I started to make up songs in my head and sing them out loud. "I love the snow, oh look at it blow" and "all night long I love to hike, it makes me happy, like riding a bike". I rotated back and forth between singing them over and over and counting my steps. Counting my steps gives my mind something to do when boredom creeps in. It keeps me from focusing on how far I still have to go or whether or not the road is going to be closed or whether or not that coyote is following me.

Another massive tree blocked my path. The mere size of its nearly 4 foot in diameter trunk would've made it impossible to crawl over, and going up the steep slippery mountainside from whence it came was out of the question. I had no choice but to slide on my belly underneath it, despite the shallow tunnel it made. When I got to the other side, my crazy mashed-up-tarp-mess was lopsided. It bounced when I walked and wobbled, forcing me to create awkwardly spaced tracks like that of a drunkard. As I walked and the wind blew me sideways, I had to stop and fix it. One misstep with this unbalanced load, and I'd join the recent spate of hikers lost over the edge.

After readjusting the pack and tightening it up, I laid on my back again to reload my heavy pack. I laughed at the ridiculousness of it. Realizing I still had another mile to go, I stepped up my song and my step. My fingers were slightly numb now, and I longed to get home. I dreamed of In N' Out and a warm dry bed. I'd order my usual--a Double Double protein style, no onions, extra pickles, an order of fries, no ketchup, two salts and a cup of water no ice. The thought of it gave me comfort. I thought about the benefits living in society brings.

As I finished the trek and got to my car, I was grateful the roads hadn't been closed. Someone had clearly been concerned for me, however, as the passenger side's window had been wiped of snow. Although I'd left my Adventure Pass in plain sight, I hadn't quite felt comfortable leaving my plans on the dash. Funny, but I'm more afraid someone will take that opportunity to break into my car than I am afraid of being in the wilderness all alone.

The lights to the house near the Hahamonga Cultural Center were on, and I wondered if the purveyor could see I was okay. I figured he'd figure it out the next morning, and I got in to drive away.