Upper East Fork Willow Creek, Six Rivers National Forest, May 31 2020
‘Good judgement comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgement’
Rita Mae Brown (but I heard this from my friend Brian)
Over the last decade I have taken a score of cross-country hikes up the East Fork of Willow Creek starting at the campground on the goat path we call 299. In that time the furthest I’d ever made it up this branch was about a third of the way. Each time I’d turn around it was with a bit of reluctance and a feeling that I was missing something cool beyond my reach. I knew I couldn’t get up and back in a day but then I thought, what if I dropped in from near Horse Mountain and just went straight down, one way?
I spent a week viewing topo maps and Google Earth as well as doing a little reconnaissance from Horse Mountain looking for access points into the drainage. I even created a formula for estimating the timing based on my accumulated data and past experience. With this, and a consultation from my magic eight ball, my estimations were that I could complete the trek in approximately 12 hours. It was going to be tough but with an early jump I’d be out before dark. I set the date for the last Saturday in May. Amanita was coming to the coast that night, so I asked her to meet me on 299 at nine. If I got out early, I’d cracked the two Boont Ambers I’d already stashed in my pack, catch a little buzz and watch the cars drive by as I reflected on what I knew would be a memorable day, no matter what happened.
But the forecast deteriorated for Saturday (heavy rains) so I recalibrated for Sunday, and instead of picking me up Amanita wanted to go. I warned her that my calculations could be a bit off and it was going to be grueling, but she said she had stamina and wanted to take part. Duly warned with written disclosures in triplicate, notarized and sent to the county recorders office, I agreed. I was actually excited to share the experience with a like minded soul. And she is.
The weather was cloudy, which was perfect for photography, and though our jump wasn’t as swift as we’d hoped, we left the trailhead by 8:30 and made it to Horse Mountain Creek by ten. The creek was beyond any expectations and running strong! The hop down to the East Fork was a series of easy cascades through a very diverse forest peppered by large boulders. Right along the banks were azaleas, and even a few dogwoods.
An hour in, my left wader sprung a leak filling my shoe with water. No matter, I knifed the boot above the sole to allow water to drain when on land. My foot would be wet, but I could deal with it. What were my options anyway?
A small picturesque waterfall greeted us at the confluence, and though we were a little further behind, the day was still young and photo ops were everywhere. We moved down the creek with fun anticipation for what was around each corner.
But time was ticking. We did have to keep moving.
The upper section was a bit narrower than anticipated, and the respites of benches and bars diminished. I’d checked the USGS and Google maps, but at 80 foot intervals the story played differently with boots in the creek. The consequences of this weren’t lost on me. But I knew the lower section and it wasn’t going to be that difficult in the dark, and the hike was absolutely going to end in the dark, which was fine. I still felt in control.
As the drainage remained narrow and our progress relegated to either animal trails or the creek, another hurdle came into play: downed trees. The story was always the same, an old grown tree comes down and takes out what it can before resting over the creek. Then, when winter waters swell, any debris coming downstream backs up and creates what seemed like an unstable mortar to the old growth bricks. It created the worst footing, and like the side of a shampoo bottle, as we descended it was rinse, lather, repeat. Our ETA kept getting later.
As we came over a small ridge that pushed the creek to the right, I saw what I’d anticipated we’d find up here, a significant waterfall. The entire creek dumped about 25 feet into what was the largest swim hole we’d witness on the trip. Neither of us felt all that fatigued, so there was little resistance to stopping and pulling out the cameras. We took a bunch of pictures, rehydrated, and ate. I got out my Satellite app and checked our progress.
It was time to have a conversation……she already knew.
At this point the scenery may have been the most consistently beautiful, but the thought of moving quickly was taking a stronghold. The day had yielded to the evening, and shortly afterward the evening sounds went silent, minus the perceived infinity of the creek.
The last of the light afforded Amanita and I a view of this robust little feeder creek that had split and was spilling two identical waterfalls into the main stem. That was my last picture of the trip, and we were not even close to done. My eyes adjusted to the waning light until it couldn’t any longer.
With the grip of night, things changed. First, without the visual stimulation my senses started focusing on other things, like cumulative fatigue and the pain from a couple of spills I had taken a few hours back. I also starting feeling increased groin tightness (I could barely lift my left leg) which added to the challenge of the obstacle course ahead. Secondly, my depth perception went to shit. With the understory being between knee and chest level, the headlamps would illuminate the top of the brush but its light didn’t always penetrate to the forest floor, so where we were stepping was was often dark and precarious.
Maybe it was because she’d grown up in the forest, but Amanita seemed to move as well in the dark as she did during the day. In contrast, my movements were not dissimilar to a drunken sailor in the middle of a three day shore leave. I took roughly a half dozen spills that night, the worst being slipping off a rock and free falling onto my backpack right into the creek. Due to the energy it was taking to get back, even with temps nearing 50 I never felt cold, though I knew stopping would change that. We just kept moving.
It’s funny. During the day, even when the canopy was dense, the light from above provided a feeling of openness. At night that all went away. A headlamp looking up ended at the tree canopy and it created a sense of being in a tunnel. When Amanita and I separated the view of her light downstream only enhanced this sense, and when a curve in the creek took that away and the only light present was my own, it almost felt claustrophobic. It was a weird feeling. Surreal.
At ‘who the fuck knows’ o’clock, totally beat up and ready to be back, I found a route to the left of the creek that clearly was the path of least resistance. In the dark I had no real reference but it felt familiar. As I returned to the creek I thought, if there is a large patch of Maiden’s Hair ferns next to a swift rapid, then finally I’d know where we were; and there it was, our first reference point!
We were only an hour away (if this were daytime).
Because of the darkness, even though we were getting closer, finding known reference points was hard. A little later I started sensing we were closer and I told Amanita to stay near and look for a flat spot to the left. At that point there would be a small trail and that would take us to the campground. We never found that trail, but Amanita found another one and since it wasn’t bush whacking or a water crossing, we were taking it! Running on fumes with my head down, I heard the best words of the day, ‘is that a picnic table?’.
We were back!
Within a minutes we were walking on the road, wet and exhausted, but relieved. The walk through the campground would take 15 minutes. I dropped my pack, opened the back, pulled out a Boont, cracked it and handed it to Amanita. We split it while talking about our takes on what became an epic adventure. We guessed what time it was. She estimated 1:45 AM and I said 1:22 (the over-under was 1:34).
We finished the beer just as we got to the car. As I sat on the road two cops drove by on 299 and shined their lights on us. They apparently deemed us harmless (it was true). I asked Amanita the time and she said it was 4:00 AM sharp, which surprised us both. Too tired to change out of my wet clothes I crawled into Amanita’s car, cranked the heat, closed my eyes and thought about what we’d just done. We’d hiked virtually non-stop for 19 1/2 hours, including eight in darkness. We’d literally hiked May into June. I was now cold.
She dropped me off at my car on Horse Mountain, I transferred my gear and headed home following her taillights. As I dropped off the mountain, the pastels of morning started whispering. My drive home was loaded with emotion. I felt I’d potentially placed somebody I care about into harms way; I had accomplished something most folks would never do; Questions were answered that I’d been asking for a decade (they were important to me); and I had just seen places that possibly nobody had been to in years.
Like I said, no matter what happened, I’d set this day up the be memorable, and in a weird way, I was proud of that.
As we hit the coast the sun rose over the same mountains that had just fed our misadventure.
Upper East Fork Willow Creek, Six Rivers National Forest, May 31 2020
‘Good judgement comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgement’
Rita Mae Brown (but I heard this from my friend Brian)
Over the last decade I have taken a score of cross-country hikes up the East Fork of Willow Creek starting at the campground on the goat path we call 299. In that time the furthest I’d ever made it up this branch was about a third of the way. Each time I’d turn around it was with a bit of reluctance and a feeling that I was missing something cool beyond my reach. I knew I couldn’t get up and back in a day but then I thought, what if I dropped in from near Horse Mountain and just went straight down, one way?
I spent a week viewing topo maps and Google Earth as well as doing a little reconnaissance from Horse Mountain looking for access points into the drainage. I even created a formula for estimating the timing based on my accumulated data and past experience. With this, and a consultation from my magic eight ball, my estimations were that I could complete the trek in approximately 12 hours. It was going to be tough but with an early jump I’d be out before dark. I set the date for the last Saturday in May. Amanita was coming to the coast that night, so I asked her to meet me on 299 at nine. If I got out early, I’d cracked the two Boont Ambers I’d already stashed in my pack, catch a little buzz and watch the cars drive by as I reflected on what I knew would be a memorable day, no matter what happened.
But the forecast deteriorated for Saturday (heavy rains) so I recalibrated for Sunday, and instead of picking me up Amanita wanted to go. I warned her that my calculations could be a bit off and it was going to be grueling, but she said she had stamina and wanted to take part. Duly warned with written disclosures in triplicate, notarized and sent to the county recorders office, I agreed. I was actually excited to share the experience with a like minded soul. And she is.
The weather was cloudy, which was perfect for photography, and though our jump wasn’t as swift as we’d hoped, we left the trailhead by 8:30 and made it to Horse Mountain Creek by ten. The creek was beyond any expectations and running strong! The hop down to the East Fork was a series of easy cascades through a very diverse forest peppered by large boulders. Right along the banks were azaleas, and even a few dogwoods.
An hour in, my left wader sprung a leak filling my shoe with water. No matter, I knifed the boot above the sole to allow water to drain when on land. My foot would be wet, but I could deal with it. What were my options anyway?
A small picturesque waterfall greeted us at the confluence, and though we were a little further behind, the day was still young and photo ops were everywhere. We moved down the creek with fun anticipation for what was around each corner.
But time was ticking. We did have to keep moving.
The upper section was a bit narrower than anticipated, and the respites of benches and bars diminished. I’d checked the USGS and Google maps, but at 80 foot intervals the story played differently with boots in the creek. The consequences of this weren’t lost on me. But I knew the lower section and it wasn’t going to be that difficult in the dark, and the hike was absolutely going to end in the dark, which was fine. I still felt in control.
As the drainage remained narrow and our progress relegated to either animal trails or the creek, another hurdle came into play: downed trees. The story was always the same, an old grown tree comes down and takes out what it can before resting over the creek. Then, when winter waters swell, any debris coming downstream backs up and creates what seemed like an unstable mortar to the old growth bricks. It created the worst footing, and like the side of a shampoo bottle, as we descended it was rinse, lather, repeat. Our ETA kept getting later.
As we came over a small ridge that pushed the creek to the right, I saw what I’d anticipated we’d find up here, a significant waterfall. The entire creek dumped about 25 feet into what was the largest swim hole we’d witness on the trip. Neither of us felt all that fatigued, so there was little resistance to stopping and pulling out the cameras. We took a bunch of pictures, rehydrated, and ate. I got out my Satellite app and checked our progress.
It was time to have a conversation……she already knew.
At this point the scenery may have been the most consistently beautiful, but the thought of moving quickly was taking a stronghold. The day had yielded to the evening, and shortly afterward the evening sounds went silent, minus the perceived infinity of the creek.
The last of the light afforded Amanita and I a view of this robust little feeder creek that had split and was spilling two identical waterfalls into the main stem. That was my last picture of the trip, and we were not even close to done. My eyes adjusted to the waning light until it couldn’t any longer.
With the grip of night, things changed. First, without the visual stimulation my senses started focusing on other things, like cumulative fatigue and the pain from a couple of spills I had taken a few hours back. I also starting feeling increased groin tightness (I could barely lift my left leg) which added to the challenge of the obstacle course ahead. Secondly, my depth perception went to shit. With the understory being between knee and chest level, the headlamps would illuminate the top of the brush but its light didn’t always penetrate to the forest floor, so where we were stepping was was often dark and precarious.
Maybe it was because she’d grown up in the forest, but Amanita seemed to move as well in the dark as she did during the day. In contrast, my movements were not dissimilar to a drunken sailor in the middle of a three day shore leave. I took roughly a half dozen spills that night, the worst being slipping off a rock and free falling onto my backpack right into the creek. Due to the energy it was taking to get back, even with temps nearing 50 I never felt cold, though I knew stopping would change that. We just kept moving.
It’s funny. During the day, even when the canopy was dense, the light from above provided a feeling of openness. At night that all went away. A headlamp looking up ended at the tree canopy and it created a sense of being in a tunnel. When Amanita and I separated the view of her light downstream only enhanced this sense, and when a curve in the creek took that away and the only light present was my own, it almost felt claustrophobic. It was a weird feeling. Surreal.
At ‘who the fuck knows’ o’clock, totally beat up and ready to be back, I found a route to the left of the creek that clearly was the path of least resistance. In the dark I had no real reference but it felt familiar. As I returned to the creek I thought, if there is a large patch of Maiden’s Hair ferns next to a swift rapid, then finally I’d know where we were; and there it was, our first reference point!
We were only an hour away (if this were daytime).
Because of the darkness, even though we were getting closer, finding known reference points was hard. A little later I started sensing we were closer and I told Amanita to stay near and look for a flat spot to the left. At that point there would be a small trail and that would take us to the campground. We never found that trail, but Amanita found another one and since it wasn’t bush whacking or a water crossing, we were taking it! Running on fumes with my head down, I heard the best words of the day, ‘is that a picnic table?’.
We were back!
Within a minutes we were walking on the road, wet and exhausted, but relieved. The walk through the campground would take 15 minutes. I dropped my pack, opened the back, pulled out a Boont, cracked it and handed it to Amanita. We split it while talking about our takes on what became an epic adventure. We guessed what time it was. She estimated 1:45 AM and I said 1:22 (the over-under was 1:34).
We finished the beer just as we got to the car. As I sat on the road two cops drove by on 299 and shined their lights on us. They apparently deemed us harmless (it was true). I asked Amanita the time and she said it was 4:00 AM sharp, which surprised us both. Too tired to change out of my wet clothes I crawled into Amanita’s car, cranked the heat, closed my eyes and thought about what we’d just done. We’d hiked virtually non-stop for 19 1/2 hours, including eight in darkness. We’d literally hiked May into June. I was now cold.
She dropped me off at my car on Horse Mountain, I transferred my gear and headed home following her taillights. As I dropped off the mountain, the pastels of morning started whispering. My drive home was loaded with emotion. I felt I’d potentially placed somebody I care about into harms way; I had accomplished something most folks would never do; Questions were answered that I’d been asking for a decade (they were important to me); and I had just seen places that possibly nobody had been to in years.
Like I said, no matter what happened, I’d set this day up the be memorable, and in a weird way, I was proud of that.
As we hit the coast the sun rose over the same mountains that had just fed our misadventure.