We walked along, our footsteps falling into a rhythm, the only audible sounds being the crunch of an occasional pinecone and our shoes kicking up the soft dirt with each step. The sun was warm and strong for so early in the season, beating down on us as we meandered our way along the shore of Lake Chelan. With images of gooey cinnamon buns swirling around in our minds, we kept walking – right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot.
As we walked along, I thought back to last fall, when I hiked up to Cascade Pass in the pouring rain with my dad. The weather that day could not have been more opposite than this past weekend’s. As the rain dripped off our jackets and rain pants, we trudged up the pass, the visibility in the fog extending no more than fifteen or so feet ahead of us. Determined that the weather may turn and further tempted by temporary pauses in the rain, we kept walking for hours.
The only view we ever saw that day was a wall of fog at the top of the pass, but we left with something even more valuable – a memory of hiking together, the excitement of nearly seeing a bear (the jury is out on whether we walked past without noticing), and a tip on a sleepy little town tucked on the other side of Cascade Pass.
A fellow hiker we met that day was the first who told me about Stehekin, and I’ll admit it sounded much more like a legend than an actual place. Stehekin, meaning “the way through,” is an isolated town at the northernmost point of Lake Chelan, within the borders of North Cascades National Park, that is inaccessible via car and too remote for cell service. No roads lead in or out of the valley despite being home to around a hundred full time residents. Despite it’s tiny size, the town caters to the hikers who make the trek in on foot and to other travelers wandering in by boat or float plane, curious to see the town for themselves.
Nearly 50 miles from reliable cell service, which equates to a two-hour ferry ride, the town has resisted the influence of the connectedness we readily enjoy in modern society, instead relishing in the peace and quiet that comes with being “off the grid.” As I researched more about Stehekin from the comfort of my Seattle apartment, I learned that the town is home to what sounded like another legend – the Stehekin Pastry Company – known for serving up heavenly and scrumptious snacks to hungry travelers.
The mysticism of the town captivated me.
I knew I had to make the trek. Last weekend, I finally crossed it off my bucket list.
My friend David and I had been walking for hours, easing into the quiet and comfortable silence that often accompanies a long hike in the woods as the sun started to sink lower on the horizon. As we hiked along, we snuck past a rattlesnake, spooked a few lizards, sending them scurrying off between the rocks, dipped our hands in glacial streams to cool off, and snacked on bite-size Butterfingers to fend off low blood sugar.
After 11 or so miles and few thousand feet of combined elevation gain, we found ourselves at the junction we had been waiting for – continue on to Stehekin or settle in for the night at Moore Point. As tempting as it was to hunker down and continue on for 7 more miles, we veered left and set up camp on the sunny shores of Lake Chelan at the peninsula known as Moore Point.
I’m starting to understand why long cross country trails like the Pacific Crest Trail and the Appalachian Trail draw thousands of eager hikers to their trailheads each year. Backpacking may seem like the simple combination of hiking and camping, but that doesn’t account for the magic of spending a night under the stars after carrying everything you need on your back for the entire day.
There are few things as refreshing as slipping a heavy pack off your shoulders and wading barefoot through icy waters after a day on your feet.
Whether it’s the beauty of the trail, the infinite number of constellations, or the brightness of the moon reflecting off a lake, there’s no way to capture the magic of backpacking except by getting out there and doing it.
Looking up at the stars while the smoke of a campfire swirls around, it’s hard not to ponder how we’re just a little blip in a huge universe. Inspecting a map of Stehekin and the northern part of Lake Chelan, complete with elevations, contour lines, campsites, alpine lakes, and peaks, it’s humbling to realize how this whole place is just one tiny corner of a much, much bigger world.
As we approached Stehekin from the south the next morning, David and I nearly walked past a local without even noticing him. Ten feet off the trail, he was setting up a display of flowers in honor of his mom for Mother’s Day. He called out to us, spooking us for a moment since our eyes had been glued to the trail and neither of us had picked our heads up in time to notice him. Walking toward us, his face lit up in a smile as he chatted with us about the town and recent changes, like the acquisition of the ferry service by the same family that owns the bakery in town.
Before bidding us goodbye, he proudly showed us the tattoo covering the inside of his forearm. The snowcapped mountains and turquoise waters matched the view we had been absorbing from the trail the last couple days. Despite being just a tiny dot on a map, and an even smaller dot in our universe, Lake Chelan and Stehekin continues to be his corner of the world and his happy place.
I couldn’t help but feel an even greater reverence for this lake, the magical town I had not yet even stepped foot in, and my own tiny corners in this big world.
The 55 x 100 foot lot in New Jersey that was my world for the first 18 years of my life, the Fair Lawn High School track where I ran hundreds of miles in high school, campground #8 at Rollins Pond in upstate New York where I caught more fish than I could ever count, and my grandparents’ house on Jagoe Street where Alessandra and I ran around with the neighborhood kids playing manhunt and having water balloon fights. If we’re lucky, these little dots on a map are places we can return to again and again. The same views, the same smells – it always feels like coming home.
Living out on the West Coast, I’m often plotting new points on my map vs. frequently visiting the many places that brought me joy and comfort growing up. Despite being on the go so often, I have been able to find that elusive feeling of coming home whenever I’m outside. Maybe it’s having a long line of relatives that have lived in the Dolomites for the past six hundred years (and counting) that draws me to the mountains, or maybe, we’re all drawn to mountains.
Think about it… how many bumper stickers, journals, water bottles, magnets, and t-shirts feature John Muir’s famous words “the mountains are calling and I must go.”
Hiking through the forests and mountains of the upper left, USA has been a constant source of comfort this past year, like a big hug, especially being so far from the people and places that feel most like home. Something about their size and stature grounds me.
Backpacking, and hiking in general, is also magical reminder that it requires literally tens of thousands of small steps to accomplish anything. Whether it’s an eighteen-mile hike, or any task at all, it’s the little stuff that adds up to something awesome. There’s no shortcut or way around it. The best part? The reward of hard work tastes that much sweeter.
No literally, hike eighteen miles with a pack and then eat a cinnamon roll. I promise it will be the best thing you ever eat in your entire life. Who knew the reward of hard work could be THAT sweet!
Putting one foot in front of the other for hours on end is incredibly meditative when paired with a quiet space to think.
Another gift of hiking? True appreciation for the body that gets you from point A to point B. When I’m out on the trail, I’m not critical of my body, instead, I send it love and gratitude for making it possible for me to put one foot in front of the other. I love what my body is capable of on the trails. Strong legs are what propel me forward despite a heavy pack, each step of reminder of strength and grit that stays with me off the trail.
As soon as I walked into my apartment in Seattle late on Sunday evening, I plopped my backpack down (newly named Twisp) and kicked off my shoes. After just a weekend in the woods, it felt weird to be walking barefoot on hardwood floors and odd to walk over and switch on a table lamp vs. my headlamp. A steamy shower left my skin sparkly clean and my hair silky soft, successfully removing multiple layers of sweat and dirt I had accumulated since Friday (gross I know, but also kinda awesome)
I’m always amazed how a weekend spent outside can be so restorative – leaving me with a heightened sense of awareness for things I otherwise take for granted – like running water and indoor lighting. Spending a whole weekend outside also leaves me with a greater appreciation for daylight hours, long days, and good company. I’m left a bit lighter, my breath isn’t as shallow, and my shoulders aren’t hiked up near my ears.
Whether it leaves you with a sense of calm, a little dose of gratefulness, or a smile on your face, give yourself the gift of a weekend outside. Lace up those shoes, take a deep breath, and go for a walk in the woods.
You can thank me later.
