June 27th started out like any other day. We packed up our camp near Paradise Lake in the Marble Mountain Wilderness and set out across the snow, planning to walk 15 miles to our next campsite. Three hours later, we had traveled a grand total of.....one mile.
Unable to see the trail due to snow, we attempted to cross a fairly steep mountainside on what appeared to be the easiest and least-snowy route possible. At one point during this traverse, the icy slushy snow beneath my feet suddenly gave way and I found myself sliding (in slow motion, it seemed), down the mountainside I had just climbed. Luckily, I had my ice axe in my right hand, ready to work in such a time of need. Unluckily, I had my trekking pole strapped onto my left hand, and since it had gotten twisted around in the snow and was now facing uphill, I couldn't get my left hand under me in order to properly self-arrest by putting my body weight onto my ice axe. Luckily, I wasn't on too steep of a section and managed to come to a stop using some combination of the axe, my leg, and some deeper slush. Unluckily, when I stopped the first thing I saw was (my) bright red blood dripping onto the snow (Have you ever seen blood on snow? Trust me, it's very dramatic).
I pulled myself together and slowly climbed back up to where Nolan was waiting, having walked safely across. We took some time to rest and examine my wounds (nothing too severe, just some skin missing on my right elbow and upper thigh) before continuing on. We eventually made it around the hill that had been obscuring our view and saw a discouraging sight. The mountainsides as far as we could see in front of us were equally snowy and steep. This was what the next few days had in store for us, and at the rate we were traveling, there was a strong possibility we weren't even going to make it to our next scheduled town on time.
I'm not proud to say that at this point I broke down. I had begun this adventure with backpacking and camping in mind. I knew it was going to be hard, and I was ready for that. I was not ready for months of steep deep-snow travel. I had no experience or training doing any type of snow-related activities. I felt beyond unsafe. Nolan, although less scared than I, was supportive. We decided to head back toward Seiad Valley and make a new plan. I was relieved, but sad.
The one mile that we had traveled during the previous three hours took us two more hours to go back across (including plenty of shaking and hyperventilating on my part). That night we camped by Buckhorn Spring, making a grand total of 7.5 miles we had hiked in about 11 hours that day. During the night, a huge wind and rain storm kicked in, as if the mountains were mourning our decision to leave (or punishing us?). We slept in the following morning, hoping the rain would ease up. It did not. We trudged through the final two miles of snow in the rain, then back down the 15 miles into Seiad Valley in the rain. We ate lunch under a drippy bridge in the rain. We walked right through creeks and puddles, as it was impossible for our shoes and socks to get any wetter. Nolan was optimistic. I was sopping wet with rain weighing down my pack and rain pants consistently rubbing on my open leg wound. I was miserable.
(stay tuned for part 2: the part that's actually lucky)
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