Crossing That Bridge

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

Last year, our friend, Roger, had checked this particular wolverine camera for us so we wouldn’t have to cross the gnarly Middle Fork Nooksack to access our site. Robert and I had been defeated by another raging stream earlier in the summer, while trying to hike the PCT from the North Cascades Highway to Stehekin—a 20-mile backpack through tough terrain. After hiking half that distance with Alder, our dog, I’d confronted my demons at a sketchy suspension bridge and decided we should turn around. Whether the demons won or lost is is a matter of perspective; I like to think I made the right choice given the stakes if not the odds.

But this year, at the Nooksack, would be different. I was determined to make it to the other side.

Roger wasn’t an option. He had his own demons to confront, in the form of four clogged arteries. Less than a month ago, this man who could normally outpace a cheetah had to undergo quadruple bypass surgery—no doubt a hand dealt by genetics, fortunately played out before he had to fold. 

Robert and I recently camped on Roger’s property while we were up north doing field work. We figured the least we could do for our mountain companion was to prepare a few meals and help out in the garden between camera checks. After breakfast one morning—homemade blueberry muffins and melon—I used a newly acquired pandemic skill (though “skill” might be generous) to give him a backyard haircut, then asked Robert to clean up his eyebrows. We were a far cry from those craggy peaks, but I think we all got a clear view of humility that day.

Only two weeks had passed since Roger’s chest became a proving ground for medical miracles—veins and arteries plucked from arms and legs and relocated to his heart. Yet when we returned from the field one evening, he proudly reported having walked 2.5 miles roundtrip to a mailbox that very afternoon. Slowly. Tenaciously. His eye on the prize.

And what, exactly, is the prize? I can’t speak for Roger, but I know he’s intent on seeing the wilderness again before winter. I also know what it feels like to be hungry for the trail.  

Maybe Roger’s resolve had something to do with my own motivation the morning we drove to the Elbow Lake trailhead, where the crossing had been washed out by the Nooksack’s snowmelt torrent. We’d heard that some daring person had lashed logs together and created a makeshift bridge. We would suss it out for safety and make a judgment call from there.

As we bounced along the dirt road approaching the river, I reminded Robert there was a good chance I wouldn’t be able to do it—just in case. But inside, I’d already told myself I’d crawl across those logs if I had to.

So that’s what I did.

One knee in front of the other. 

Eyes on the prize.