3 July 2009 - East of Northport, Washington

We are in a groove. Twenty miles is coming much easier each day. We have scaled countless mountains and have walked numerous anonymous roads and trails. As I grow accustomed to the long days and the climbing, I feel more certain that this is a life I could live. Not even half way into this journey, and I am thinking of future potential routes to walk.

Nothing is more basic than hiking. You rest when you are tired, and you stop when you find a nice spot. There is no concern of property. I am losing any hesitancy to just camp anywhere. For example, tonight we are camped amongst the ruins of an old ranch. I imagine this is public land, but even if it isn't, I doubt anyone else will pass through this area for weeks. Who should care if someone puts up a tent and enjoys a view?

Today we hiked a rural road that despite being public was gated off. Near the end of the road was an apparent spring. Being another scorching day, I set off into some brush to find the spring. I heard some water flopping--which I assumed was the spring spurting out from the ground at an uneven tempo. There I saw the bush move. I stopped approaching the spring, and a moment later, a bull moose came running out of the bushes. He ran up a hill away from us, and then we all sat and stared at each other. He eventually grew bored of our staring contest and retreated into the woods.

30 June 2009

Today we crossed into the state of Washington, our third and final state of the hike. For the last day of June, we encountered a fair amount of snow occupanied by snow melt rivers. For awhile I was bothered by the frigid water, too cold for any leisure activity. Even drinking too much is a shock to the system. Now I'm trying to accustom myself to it.

When fording or wading in a glacial river (temp roughly 1 or 2 degrees above freezing), the body sends out millions of nerve impulses telling me that the water is unsafe. My limbs completely go numb, and I don't even realize all the cuts and bruises that I am receiving from the sharp rocks of the river. After leaving the water, my body still aches, but my feet are in sever pain. I don't understand why my feet would be so much more painful than any other body part exposed to the water.

With running, I was able to teach myself to ignore certain pain. Pain exists to tell us something is wrong. If we know that the pian will be short-lived or that it isn't damaging, we should be able to ignore it. I was successful in doing this for running. Now I need to do so for cold water.