Margaret Chula

On the Pacific Crest Trail

By Doug Fir

A warm early morning at the beginning of June. Last night I threaded new laces in my hiking boots and double-checked my list: stove, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, socks, shirts, shorts, warm pants, tent, rain jacket, first aid kit, maps, sunglasses, and a two-week supply of food. Water will be plentiful on the trail. I turn to say good-bye, but no one has shown up to see me off.

starting my journey—
tears in the eyes
of my guinea pigs

My trusty dog, Dora, trots along beside me, carrying kibbles and water on her back. This is our longest adventure together. The tree canopy so thick I can’t see the sky, air smelling of white pines and mountain hemlocks, the trail well worn by previous PCT trekkers. Arrive late afternoon at the Sky Lakes Wilderness. I pitch my tent by a lake in the Siskiyou forest and set up the stove and utensils for cooking. This is the beginning of fire season, so no campfires.

weary hiker
wades into the lake
chortle of bullfrogs

It drizzles the next few days as we wind slowly up the mountain to the pass. Mud makes the trail slippery, and fog obscures our vision. Ancient trees line up like ghostly sentinels of settlers who forged this trail centuries ago.

wagon wheel
all that's left
of pioneer dreams

The bridge has been washed away by spring snowmelt, so we’re forced to take a detour. Salamanders skitter out of our way. Stellar jays shriek. A family of deer stands alert in the shadows.

as for the slug
on the path
Dora ate it

Crawling into my sleeping bag fully clothed, I fall asleep to the sound of a hoot owl calling to its mate.

frigid night
if only Dora
were a woman

Approaching the Mt. Hood Wilderness area, the trail takes us through meadows of lupine and yellow columbine. Dora entertains herself by chasing chipmunks and marmots. The majestic mountain finally makes an appearance, snow-capped and radiant in midday sun. Dora and I cross stream after stream balancing on stepping stones.

tightrope walk
between old growth and sapling
brown recluse spider

We are nearing the end of our journey. Looking down from basalt cliffs, I glimpse the mighty Columbia that, centuries ago, carved a gorge through lava flows. I imagine Celilo Falls, where native tribes built scaffolding over the waterfalls to harvest salmon using long-handled dip nets. Removing my socks, I soak my blisters in the stream and dab on mercurochrome that has spilled in its plastic bag.

melted chocolate
all that's left
of a Milky Way

I set up camp under the stars, eat what’s left of my provisions, and sleep in my tent for the last time.

no need for a torch
pissing under
a full moon

The next morning, we descend all day to the river. It’s grown hot, but I quicken my pace, eager to reach our final destination—crossing the bridge from Oregon into Washington.  

flower boxes
on the Bridge of the gods
who tends the cosmos?

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About the Author

Margaret Chula has been writing haiku, haibun, and tanka for over forty years. One Leaf Detaches (haiku) was awarded a Touchstone Distinguished Book Award in 2019. Her new haibun memoir, Firefly Lanterns: Twelve Years in Kyoto, received a NYC 2022 Big Book Award in Multicultural Nonfiction. Maggie lives in Portland, Oregon, and enjoys hiking in the Columbia River Gorge.