The Panhandle Warms Up – The Trek

Two days ago, I spent 90 minutes under a bridge during a heavy rain. Now I was hiding under a bridge to escape the heat. The day had started out quite cool, but under a clear blue sky, the forest dried out quickly and the air temperature rose rapidly. Shortly before noon, the trail turned into a road, the shade became scarce, and I began to sweat.

After a three-hour sandwich of paved and dirt road, I was thirsty, covered in dust, and ready for a break. That’s when I came to a short, one-lane bridge over the West Fork Yaak River. Under the bridge, the smell of wood creosote was strong at first, but faded after a few minutes. I spent an hour there, drank a lot of water, and collected enough for the night. Finally, I dove fully clothed into the river and began the last climb of the day.

Two sunny days later, I crossed from Montana into Idaho and spent the morning losing 3,500 feet of elevation. For most of the descent I had a clear view of the opposite side of the valley. I knew I would spend the afternoon there, regaining all the altitude I had just lost. The angel on my right shoulder gently reminded me of what is at stake.

«It’s a big climb and the later you start, the hotter it will be. Get water from the river and keep moving.»

The devil on my left shoulder was nowhere to be seen. Sleep late.

a dilemma

At the bottom of the valley, when he was about to cross the bridge over the Moyie River, the shoulder demon finally appeared. He made a persuasive argument.

«Look, Northern Idaho uses Pacific Time, so it’s now 12:15 on a Saturday afternoon. The Feist Creek Restaurant isn’t even a quarter mile away. It’s only open on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, starting at noon. We’d be stupid not to.»

I ended up eating fish and chips and drinking a full jug of ice water (about 1.5 liters). The shoulder angel glared at me during the meal. When I thought about ordering dessert, she simply crossed her arms and turned her back on me. He was right.

I poured another jug ​​of ice water into my canteen and began the climb at 2:15 pm Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the water source mentioned in some FarOut comments, so I had to stretch my supply to the limit. I had less than half a liter when I reached the top of Bussard Mountain, so there was no hot food that night, just snacks. But also a campsite with fantastic views of the valley.

As usual, I got up half an hour before dawn. It was 4:30 am according to my phone, but time zones have no meaning in the countryside. However, they apply to the real world and I would soon be heading into the city to resupply. As I broke camp, I watched as the first rays of sun began to illuminate the valley and then I began to descend.

Bonners Ferry

Highway 95 was quieter than expected. A car stopped after I had been hitchhiking for about 40 minutes and the driver, Andy, took me to Threemile Corner. I bought an ice cream and a drink and then started walking the remaining three kilometers. It was a gentle, winding descent, but when I arrived it was hot. Bonners Ferry has a long, narrow layout and the town extends along the highway. When I looked at the map, I realized I still had two miles to go. I stopped again for a snack and lunch.

I checked into Idaho Lodge and spent the rest of the afternoon doing my usual tasks. The next morning, the hotel manager, Douglas, drove me back to the trail. Correction: took me back to the trailhead. There are almost nine miles of paved road between Highway 95 and the Parker Ridge trailhead, and thanks to Douglas, I didn’t have to hike them.

In 2015, the northeast slope of Parker Peak burned from the valley floor almost to the summit, so there wasn’t much shade for most of the 6,000-foot climb. I camped on the ridge about two miles past the burn area and enjoyed the views of the Selkirk Mountains for the first few miles the next morning. The following kilometers were less pleasant. In fact, I would go so far as to say that they are my least favorite of the entire Pacific Northwest Trail. Still, at least Lion Creek was a learning experience. It taught me that if “bushwhack” appeared anywhere in future FarOut comments, I should look for an alternative.

Toggle all the way down

The day after making my way through the Lion Creek drainage, I fell asleep. It also had scratches, bruises and was a kilometer or two behind schedule. After walking for about 30 minutes, I came to a junction where the red line makes a sharp right turn and loops 3,000 feet up Lookout Mountain. I opted for an easier day. I stayed on the dirt road, with its gentle downhill slope, until I reached Priest Lake State Park.

The campground was pretty full, a handful of people were awake and a water skier was on the lake. I rejoined the red line in less than a mile and stopped to rest once I reached the shore of Upper Priest Lake. A few miles later, FarOut comments described the ensuing red line confusion, so I took the Jackson Creek alternative. A distant thunderclap was followed by a few drops of rain, which turned into a moderately heavy downpour. I camped soon after; It had been exactly the kind of low-effort day I needed.

A short distance from the campground, I returned to the dirt road, dodged a logging truck, and an hour later reached the Washington state line. It had taken five days to cross the Idaho peninsula. The route I chose that day was an unofficial alternative described by several people in the FarOut comments. I followed a well-maintained dirt road up the easy grade to Pass Creek Pass (the unimaginative name) and down the other side. When I reached Sullivan Creek, after almost 20 dusty miles, I needed water.

another dilemma

At an intersection of four dirt roads, I crawled down to the creek and my heart immediately skipped a beat. At the edge of the water, partially submerged, were two bottles of “Kona Big Wave” beer. Could you, with a clear conscience, accept them?

The angel on my right shoulder scratched his chin thoughtfully before giving his opinion.

«Well, you’re miles from the red line and the official alternative, so this isn’t a magic trail. Someone will probably come back for them.»

On my left shoulder, the devil paused for a moment and then pointed with his little pitchfork.

«Look, there are pine needles sticking out from under the trim on both bottle caps. They’ve been here a long time. No one’s coming back for them.»

I consulted with the angel for a rebuttal, but she simply shrugged her shoulders. Apparently, the logic was sound.

I picked up water, opened the 20-ounce soda bottle I was using for extra capacity, and located my pocket knife. I poured both beers into the plastic bottle and drank the remaining four ounces. Then, at exactly one o’clock, with the empty bottles clinking in my backpack and the soda bottle in my hand, I headed west. For half an hour, Sullivan Creek Road transformed into the Las Vegas Strip.

• 1:15. The buzz of beer took effect. When you’re dehydrated, even 4.4% alcohol is potent.
• 1:20. I finished the beer.
• 1:25. Ravenous hungry. I ate a granola bar. No effect. I ate another granola bar.
• 1:30. The hum disappeared.

So if I had to sum up that day succinctly, I would use three words.

Better. Alternate. Ever.

The Selkirk Mountains. Lions Head (centre) and Smith Peak (right).