The Six Week Challenge Hike
Mumble rap was playing in my newly rented van. My passengers- ten children between the ages of 13 and 15- were making equally horrible song requests, or snack requests, or simply stating how many more days we had left riding around in this van that was slowly becoming my personal hell. Finally, we stopped. The clatter of kids climbing over each other to reach the exit eventually replaced the usual ruckus. Soon after, the close of the sliding van doors led us into silence. The forest was in front of us. Fog was lifting off the trees and covering the Pacific Ocean in a thin veil. Our trail snaked its way into the woods, calling to us with smells of evergreens and the occasional hint of crashing waves.
For six weeks, this was a normal day leading hiking trips for Overland Summers. I’m from Florida and had never hiked up a mountain. I’d been camping once before and couldn’t remember how to pitch a tent. Being the youngest in my family, I wouldn’t say that I’m partial to children. Yet here I was- across the country in Washington state, camping with two different groups of teenagers and pretending that I was a wilderness expert like my job depended on it- because it did.
Joining me in this expedition was my coleader, Ben Hearon, who had recently dislocated his shoulder while bouldering in Alaska. His typical hiking attire was a pair of neon green shorts, and a button up shirt patterned with flamingoes wearing sunglasses. He completed the look with his own pair of sunglasses to match those flamingoes. Needless to say, he was much more adept at surviving than me.
One thing that I did have going into this job was a genuine love for nature. While the kids had sass, money already invested into cryptocurrency, and an obsession with mac and cheese, the one thing they did not have was even a slight appreciation for the wilderness. This obviously was not ideal for a trip that was three weeks long with accommodations exclusively in tents. Out of the ten kids there was Travis, who was the number one instigator and whose favorite phrase was, “shut the hell up.” Travis’s main enemy was Isaac, a stubborn know it all who would be the first to tell someone that they’re stupid. Piper was a chronically homesick child. As a side effect of her condition, she would only wear a blue fleece jacket that matched one of her mother’s, and cry if we told her to take it off- even on 100-degree days. Then there was Gabe, who had to say goodbye to his X-box friends before his parents forced him to fly across the country for the summer. The one solace Ben and I had was Greg. He had a 25-year-old soul and was the only one excited to be taken around the San Juan Islands, the Olympic Peninsula, and the North Cascades.
The first hike let me know that I was in for a challenge that my two-week training could not have prepared me for. A three mile hike up Mt. Constitution would lead us to a gift shop and public bathrooms. Half a mile in, Gabe decided he was feeling nauseous. Here I began my personal mantra for the kids that would last for the next three weeks, “You’re fine, keep going.” He kept going, but not for long. Insistent that he see the ocean views of the San Juans and Mt. Baker at the peak of this hill, I took him to the top in a five-minute drive on well-established roads. A small victory. We continued onwards.
In a three-day kayaking trip, we saw seals, kelp forests, and sunsets that would make artists swoon. Jones Island was our home for two nights. Our neighbors were deer with spotted babies and sprouting antlers. Dinner was served underneath a pavilion that overlooked a rocky beach and the fading blue sky of The Great Pacific Northwest. “Why can’t we just order Uber Eats?” said Isaac. Ten more days.
The climax of the trip came in the form of a five-day backcountry trip in the North Cascades. 36 miles, one challenge hike, no van, no grocery stores, and the same ten kids. I was convinced they would break. I was already halfway broken. Pulling all of my pieces together, I led our group into the bowels of the Pacific Crest Trail.
The first night consisted of cuddling with my bear spray and jumping at every whisper of a leaf. Still stiff from walking, I woke up to start the slow boil of water on the camp stove. I hauled down the bear bags hanging from the trees and began organizing the kids’ gear. The stillness of the morning was soon abandoned.
“I didn’t carry that yesterday, I don’t want it today,” said Travis.
“If I have to carry that bag of tortellini, I will kill myself and I’m not kidding,” said Gabe.
“Here just give it to me I have plenty of room,” said our champion, Greg.
Day two was seven miles of viewless terrain with a brief intermission of intense switchbacks. The frame of my backpack had started to rip, meaning that I was carrying far over the 45-pound recommendation. Even though Ben’s pink flamingo shirt was still as bright as ever, I could tell that his spirit was drained. Keeping up the morale of the group from the front of the line was a burden in itself. Now add on a 60-pound backpack topped with trash from 11 other people and you might barely begin to understand his exhaustion.
For me, the weight on my shoulders was from both my ever-tearing backpack, and the emotional weight of Piper’s perpetual sorrow. The small luxury of walking in silence was ripped away as anything other than constant conversation would make her homesickness suddenly flare up with fits of sobbing. My own tears threatened to spill over as I took up the rear of the group. After dragging ourselves to the next campsite, I zipped up my tent for an early night in. Tomorrow was challenge hike day. Five miles and over 4500 feet up Goode Ridge, followed by five miles and over 4500 feet down. Hiking would begin at exactly five a.m.
The moon was still out as we started a day that, unbeknownst to us, would take nearly 12 hours of hiking. The timeline went something like this:
5:30 a.m.: Barely half a mile in, the first complaint was released. A bee sting and my exhausted silence had started another round of crying from Piper.
7 a.m.: Officially two miles deep. The sun had risen, and we ate a breakfast of trail mix from our otherwise empty daypacks.
9 a.m.: It was a stalemate with me and Greg against Ben and the rest of the group. Gabe had told us he couldn’t do it. Travis had suddenly lost his natural athletic ability and was also in favor of turning around. Ben had simply given up on trying to get them to be anything other than lazy. Looking at their spoiled faces, I reached my decision. They’re fine, keep going.
10 a.m.: Ben had taken both Piper and Gabe’s backpacks and clipped them to his own. With no water source on the trail except for a washed-up creek, I had taken the role of carrying our extra two-gallon jug of water by hand. As we neared the top of the ridge, bushwhacking gave way to white capped peaks and narrow, rocky trails.
10:30 a.m.: Greg started to fail me. The views of the mountains weren’t enough to distract him from our approaching 6,000-foot elevation. “I’m sorry, I’m having a panic attack,” he said. It’s okay Greg, it’s okay.
12 p.m.: We reached the top with only about 30 minutes to take in the snow and cliffs surrounding us. The worst was still ahead.
Typically, hikers look forward to the way down. That is, unless you have a kid holding you back from the rest of the group. The trek to the bottom of the ridge with Piper resulted in an extra four hours, a split group, and unimaginably large complaints from a waif thin child.
“Alex, I want to go home.” You’re fine, keep going.
“Alex, I think I twisted my ankle.” You’re fine, keep going.
“Alex, I think I broke my leg.” You’re fine, keep going.
“Alex, I can’t carry my backpack.” Give me the backpack, keep going.
We had been walking for so long I had started to accept that the monotonous path of brush I was pushing through was truly never ending. In a desperate attempt to motivate myself, I prayed out loud. God please give me the strength to keep going. Thirty minutes later he answered my prayers. I handed Piper’s pack back to her.
“Oh, I could have carried this a long time ago,” she said.
From the poor performance our group had shown from the challenge hike, Ben and I decided to leave at two a.m. on the last day. At 1:50, I stifled an exhausted sob as I lay curled in my sleeping bag. For the last time, I pulled myself together and walked out of the tent. I took a warmup hike to the campsite’s wooden open-air toilet and decided to enjoy some of my final moments in the North Cascades with a stargazing pee.
By three a.m., we were back on the trail with headlamps at the ready. We hiked with the pace of people who knew that they would soon be treating themselves to burgers and milkshakes. At the back of the group as had become custom, I slowed down when the sun started to rise. The mountains had turned blue. The trees were washed in indigo, the stars had disappeared, but the moon remained. The only sound was the crunch of our boots on the trail below. I looked behind me at the valleys of the mountains and the river below. I looked to my right and saw the tips of the trees now starting to gleam gold as the sun came closer. Just two days ago I had been a slave to nature, to my blister ridden feet, to the whining of the kids. Now I realized I was welcoming it. Looking around I was more humbled than I had ever been. I had finally experienced just a brief part of what it was like to be at nature’s mercy.
Ten miles later I ran joyously to the van, dropped my backpack from my numb shoulders, and ripped the boots off my raging feet. Even in my victory, the woods were emblazoned in my mind.
It has now been five months since Washington. I haven’t been in a tent since. I pack my backpack with a MacBook Air and a charger for survival instead of water purifying tablets and fuel. After getting past the phase of waking up disoriented in a house and wondering what campsite I was at, I find myself still wishing to be in the simpleness of my single person tent. I said before that the woods were burned into my head. A deeper part of me both fears and craves that they always will be.