By: Beth Glosten, WNPF Board Member, Retired Medical Doctor, and Instructor at Mindfulness Northwest
In August 2022, at age 65, I ticked off a bucket list item: solo backpack.
Some non-woodsy friends questioned my plan “Aren’t you worried about crazy people out there? Or bears?” My answer, “not really.” My backpacking experience was quite limited, but that summer, I’d done two wonderful group trips, was in pretty good shape, and was in the mood for a challenge. I did wonder if I’d be comfortable out there alone. Would I be adequately prepared? What might surprise me?
I arrive at the bustling Colonial Creek campground in North Cascades National Park in the early afternoon midweek. It is warm and a bit muggy. I don my backpack, check my Garmin emergency satellite radio, take a deep breath, and set out on the Thunder Creek trail. It is a classic Pacific Northwest walk that follows the creek in a hemlock forest carpeted with sword ferns and salal. I take my time. No rush. The hike to Neve campground is only a few miles. Slow down, be present, savor this trip.
I pass few hikers, and once at the campground, I find a lovely site high above the rushing Thunder Creek. “Hardly a creek,” I think as I peer over the high bank down to the rushing water, noting a Northern Dipper on a rock by the rapids. I explore. Privy? Check. Water source? This is less obvious. The sign pointing to water leads to another high bank.
Apparently, the heavy rains of spring had washed away any reasonable access to Thunder Creek. I slide down the bank, grabbing at tree roots and filter several liters of water. The climb back up is slippery. At the top I realize I did all this scrambling while my Garmin sat useless in my tent. After that, it lived clipped to my pants. Lesson #1: You never know when you’ll need the SOS button – keep the Garmin on you.
Setting up camp is easy. I marvel at tent technology, recalling my one childhood family camping experience that involved heavy packs, lots of rope, canvas, big stakes in the ground, and root beer fizzies (dissolvable drink tablets of the 1960’s).
I take stock. It is me, Thunder Creek, and the myriad critters I don’t see. My ears fill with the sound of outside: wind in the branches, a gnat at my ear, the river. But mostly I savor the glorious absence of human-related sound. It is like being draped in a dense, secret fog. I sit silently for a long time.
After a freeze-dried dinner, I walk around the campground. To my surprise, I see a water bottle at one of the other sites. I surprise myself with my reaction: a spontaneous smile and a sense of relief; I am grateful to see other campers! I am more anxious about being alone than I care to admit. Their presence is like a distant, but available, insurance policy. Later, however, there is no evidence of fellow campers. Again, I’m the only human around.
I smile and breathe and sink into the feeling of gratitude, tinged with vulnerability, to be able to savor this experience.
The muted green hues of the setting sun morph to dusk – I pack away my bear cannister and nestle into the tent. A deep restful sleep comes easily. But, per usual, the urge to pee wakes me around 1am. Despite my efforts to ignore it, and my resistance to leaving my warm sleeping bag, the urgings get louder and eventually I unfold my body and stand upright outside. I flip on my headlamp. Dead. Lesson #2: Make sure each device works before packing it.
My phone suffices as a suitable backup. I pause in the dark on the way back. The night is magical, the stars are brilliant. I feel delightfully miniscule — an insignificant visiting speck. The forest, the river rocks, the logs, the moss — they are anchored, silently weathering the world.
The next morning the sound of the river fills my world. Perhaps it is the difference in air temperature that makes the river sound crisp? I stretch out my aching back, down oatmeal and tea, pack my day pack, and set out for Fourth of July Pass and campground.
The climb, though steep, is worth every step and I am rewarded with sweeping views of Colonial Peak, Snowfield Peak, and Neve Glacier from the campground. Initially I am blessed with solitude but half-way through lunch, my reverie is broken when two young trail runners appear having lost the trail in the campground. Set straight, they sprint off to the next pass. I am struck by their hurried youthful fitness (and lack of the ten essentials). My mind hollers after them “did you see this view?”
Back at camp, my tired body wants to sit and read in comfort. My aging back complains about the “furniture” that the forest has to offer. Despite this, the lull of the river, the coziness of my fleece, and the soothing drink of hot tea all lead me to drift off. When I awake, it is not yet 5pm. I ponder, is it even legal for me to make dinner and go straight to sleep? Absolutely! Lesson #3: Traveling solo offers freedom to do what you want, when you want.
The next morning, I pack up and hike out, still completely alone. Though a bit of a drive, I look forward to my planned stop at the Mazama bakery for real coffee and their famous baguette. I am surprised at how tired I feel, but it makes sense.
Traveling alone (anywhere, really, not just in the woods) takes effort – you must be vigilant, do all the planning, make all the decisions, and deal with the consequences of your actions. While exhilarating, it is also tiring, and my final Lesson #4: Factor in this extra effort in future trips. Which I have – and it is well worth it.
Inspired by Beth’s solo adventure? We sure are! If you’re interested in more tips and stories from the backcountry, check out our “Backcountry Beginners” blogs:
Washington’s National Park Fund is the official philanthropic partner to Mount Rainier, North Cascades, and Olympic National Parks. We raise private support to preserve and protect Washington’s national parks by funding scientific research, youth and family experiences, and projects that will keep these parks strong and vital now and forever, for everyone.
Cover photo is of Beth hiking in Olympic National Park on a WNPF women’s backpacking trip.
All blog photos are by Beth Glosten.