The smell of pancakes drifted out from the hostel kitchen. I found Jiggy and a girl from Christchurch, New Zealand already digging in. Jiggy turned out to be quite a veteran thru hiker, having already done the Te Araroa and the CDT. Back in Oregon, there were rumors of some people who’d tried to roadwalk from Shasta to Ashland in order to preserve their continuous footpath and get around the fire closures in Northern California. At about 200 miles of concrete road, this was utter insanity, so it was no surprise that everyone eventually bailed. Except not everyone. Jiggy had walked the entire way and given himself shinsplints while doing so. I was in awe.
On the way out of the hostel I bumped into Butterfingers. The cheerful Texan was getting off trail for a couple days to attend a wedding, making it unlikely that we’d see him again. We said goodbye and headed into town.
Snoqualmie is famous for one thing: pancakes. Now, one does not make it through the PCT without regularly sampling stacks of pancakes dripping with syrup and butter. I’d had some great ones, some mediocre ones and the giant doughy monstrosities in Kennedy Meadows that were a category on its own. All of them were the American fluffy variant though. Snoqualmie pancakes were supposedly more European and thinner, what I was used to back home. And they did not disappoint! I dare even say: best pancakes on trail!
In the lounge of the hotel nextdoor to the Pancake House, I found an unhappy looking Squirrel Daddy reclined in a chair. When I came up to say hi, he waved a hand to keep my distance. ‘I’ve got noro’, he said dejectedly. Oh no. We figured we’d left the virus behind, but apparently not. Squirrel Daddy had made it a day out of Snoqualmie Pass, before the symptoms started and he had to double back to the town, puking his guts out along the way. Luckily now he was doing a bit better and he’d only be a day behind us.
One more slice of pizza and it was time to get back on trail and climb the pass. On the way up, someone who I assumed was a dayhiker greeted me. When I mentioned my name he said he knew me. It took me a while to place him, but suddenly I knew: Rue, from Bend. Back then, he’d spotted us standing on the balcony of our hotel room from the street in Bend. He’d claimed he might run into us in Washington when he was out there hiking himself. And what do you know, he was right. Rue himself was not a PCT hiker, no, he had set his sights on something more ambitious. This was the first time I heard about the American Perimeter Trail: a trail that roughly traces the border of the US, incorporating various long distance trails. A full 13000 miles in total. And Rue was at the same time establishing the trail and hiking it as the first person ever. It was hard to comprehend. And to be honest, I thought he was lying at first. Who does such a thing?
Later on I’d discover that Rue’s journey was very much real. The more I read about him the more my admiration grew. His struggles at establishing a trail foundation for a new national scenic trail. And actually hiking it, often in areas where people had never seen a thru hiker before. He had been held at gunpoint multiple times, his gear had been stolen on at least one occasion and he’d suffered through various illnesses that sometimes lasted weeks on end. It made our PCT journey seem like a relaxing summer camp. And now, Rue told me, his journey was coming to an end. Soon, he would be the first person to ever hike the American Perimeter Trail, a feat that will have taken him multiple years. Rue didn’t come across as an elitist hiker, he was equally interested in my experiences as I was in his. An aura of unbridled joy and adventure glowed around him. People on the PCT have been nothing short of inspirational, but Rue, however brief our meeting, is one of the greats in my eyes.
This long day came to an end, but not without one final surprise. Campsites were crowded, except two spots Lavalamp and I found. Soon it became clear why they were empty though. Lavalamp turned over a rock in the middle of the site and revealed a patch of puke hidden underneath. Repulsed we both moved back. Puke here had to mean noro. The water in the lake next to the campsite was very likely contaminated. Regular water filters, like our Sawyers, do not filter out viruses like noro. Therefore, it was time for a secret weapon. Ever since day 0 at Scout and Frodo, where I’d found them in the hiker box, I carried aquamira tablets. Tablets that meticulously kill everything in water. Try to get through this, noro! The water tasted awful, like drinking from an indoor swimming pool.
I pitched my tent next to Disco, who’s name stands for Disconnected and was not given to him because he is an animal on the dancefloor, as I learned to my great disappointment. As usual, the stoic, feather capped man did not say a word all evening and simply went to sleep.