The wind last night died down at midnight, and it did indeed clear out the smoke.
It was a pleasure to gaze out over range after range of these agglomerated mountains, and see them in their true colors, not as ghostly shadows.
Morning in the Siskiyou Mountains
Each one of them seems a bit different from its neighbor: in color, in shape, in vegetation, in pattern of erosion. It is about what you’d expect if all the leftovers from the creations of other mountains were piled together in a corner, tucked away where no one would notice or pay attention. But I am paying attention.
It was a pleasure also to have expansive views of Mt Shasta, the perspective changing as the trail swung east, heading back toward the main chain of the Cascades.
This eastward jag delays the long-anticipated border crossing into Oregon. The border is only a few miles to the north, but remains there, tantalizingly just out of reach as we continue east. The border is an artifact of course, just a line someone drew a century or two ago, a line drawn by someone who had never been anywhere near here. But it is still an important psychological marker for hikers, a sign of progress, a promise that the trail does have an end and is not just an infinite loop of mountainous climbs and descents. It marks the beginning of the end, a place that is closer to Canada than Mexico. But it remains just a few miles away, teasing us with its proximity.
I stop to rest near a spring. BC, a hiker I met in Seiad, walks up and asks if I have gray Outdoor Research boxers. I do — or rather I did, they are no longer on the outside of my pack where I clipped them, planning to rinse them out at the next water source. “I checked them for dooty and picked them up” he says, tossing them over. He and Count start checking over the map, ID’ing the last water source before the border, a place where they can cool down the celebratory beers they packed. I decided against the extra weight coming out of Seiad, a decision I now deeply regret. A beer would be good.
BC and Count carry their beers toward Oregon
Eventually the border tease ends. The trail swings northeast and I pass into Oregon on a dusty lumpy completely undistinguished hillside. There is not really even a place to sit down to take a break, so I take the obligatory selfie and move on.
I walked just a few miles further and camped on a west facing bench. I sat in deep stillness watching the sun go down, the red filling the spaces between the trees. There are no roads nearby, no planes, no wind, no birds, no bugs. I fill the void with a few tunes on my uke, then lay down to watch the light drain from the sky.
Owls come out in abundance. They are black soundless shapes swooping over me, some only four or five feet above. I can feel the wind from their wings on my face, eyes closed, as they slip by.