Round Two

Day one-
The blisters finally healed from my July adventure and I couldn’t resist the siren call. I signed on for a second backpacking adventure, this time with not one but TWO younger men, one of whom, Ryan, had hiked the entire, ridiculously long, Appalachian Trail a couple of years back. With Brett’s wife, Penny, at the wheel we headed for Mount Hood on August 25th. We’d planned to start at the same trailhead Brett and I used for the first leg. This time we were going to hit the trail in the Northern direction instead of heading South. An ongoing forest fire prevented us from using that starting point. The Forest Service website had said that all trails on that side of the mountain were closed. Silly us, we believed it... We later learned that all except the Pacific Crest Trail, our intended route, were closed.

Our plan B had us beginning at historic Timberline Lodge, the place where The Shining with Jack Nicholson was filmed. Instead of feeling as though we were in a horror movie, it was more like being in a fairy tale film. There were literally thousands of butterflies everywhere you looked. Later research identified them as California Tortoise Shells.Penny captured one of the lovely critters and placed him on the brim of Brett’s hat, our mascot for several miles. Adding to the idyllic effect was the fact that my backpack was a good four pounds lighter than it had been on the first leg of our journey, weighing in at a mere thirty four pounds! On that last trip I reached the end still lugging three days worth of food. I was not going to make that particular mistake again. On top of that, our destination was an aptly named alpine meadow called Paradise Park, a place still bursting with high elevation Spring.

A large group of college students from Walla Walla beat us there. Once we arrived, we found a spot downhill from their encampment, far enough away that we couldn’t hear them. Ryan chose to stay a bit uphill, out in the open, not in the trees where Brett and I set up our tents. This turned out to be Ryan’s Big Mistake, not because of raucous teenagers but because of the wind that whipped up in the night. His beautifully rigged tarp turned out to be a perfectly oriented wind tunnel. In the morning, he was evenly coated with a layer of volcanic ash, the substrate of the area.

Day two-
The evening before, we’d met an AT through hiker, who arrived at dusk and then set out at the crack of dawn. He’d made his entrance as we were sitting quietly beside the trail, a young buck gazing at us as the three of us watched the sun disappear in a russet haze of forest fire smoke.
The hiker was practically running, thumping along, trekking poles swinging at a furious pace. I know he was doing the same as he made his exit in the morning judging from the booming steps I heard as I still lay inside my tent when he barged through our camp, unable to find the trail. We, of course, slept in and later tried to keep everything from blowing away as we packed up. It was off on a Day of Hazardous Crossings; at least that was how they were labeled on my USFS map of the PCT. As it turned out the first two were only hazardous at certain times of the year and for us they were merely a fun log crossing surrounded by more butterflies.

We made our way to Ramona Falls, the site of one of Ryan’s earliest letterboxes and his first hand carved rubber stamp. My, that boy’s skills have improved over time! The falls are a popular day hike and we met up with quite a few other people there.
This was where we met up with a middle aged dad and his twenty-something daughter. We ended up sharing a campsite with them later that evening and were soon rolling our eyes and shaking our heads askance. We all wended our way down to a rocky riverbed near the campsite to watch the alpenglow bloom on the glacier above. The daughter sat on a boulder behind her dad with her legs draped over his shoulders, giving him an extremely chummy “backrub.” Hmmm...

This was also where we were going to make the third and last Hazardous Crossing in the morning. I decided to scout it out before the sun went down. I tell you, I had nightmares that night. There was a skinny little tree recently placed over a rapidly churning river filled with rocks. Part of the log was submerged and looked downright deadly. I pictured myself slipping and sliding off that toothpick, cracking my skull on a waiting rock and being left as vulture bait.

Day three-
As it turns out, the map also said to cross in the morning. It was very good advice because during the night the glacier which fed the river froze back up and the water level dropped considerably. The log was no longer underwater and the crossing only mildly frightening.

That was to be our last water for several miles. We loaded up and headed for Lolo Pass. Once there we crossed a road (!) and found another lovely spring to cool off in and filter water. This was going to be a long day. As had been the case from the beginning, Ryan headed off leaving Brett and me behind in the dust. We met up with him from time to time, waiting patiently, reading a book. I’m a pokey hiker and Brett stuck with me, eating my dust mile after mile, just as he’d done in July. He claims it’s good for him to hike at my pace so that he doesn’t blow out his knees but I’m dubious. I just think it’s because he’s an all ‘round Southern Gentleman.

At this point we entered the Bull Run Watershed, the source of Portland’s drinking water. It’s a gigantic fine, I think $5000, to camp there and there’s little drinking water along the way. We had the choice of breaking the law, stealth camping in the woods in a dry camp, or diverging from the PCT and heading down to Lost Lake where there was letterbox and... drum roll... a store! This meant the possibility of ice cream. Easy choice.

Just as we approached Lost Lake, we saw an encampment of car campers close to the trail. It turns out this was forest service land, not part of the Lost Lake resort area and was open to camping free of charge. Perfect! It was Brett’s turn to host blisters and it was definitely an auspicious time to set up camp. That done we headed off for beer, ice cream, a letterbox and a circuit of the lake. At dusk,Ryan peeled off so that he could find a picnic table to cook his dinner on and Brett and I peeled off layers of filthy clothing to bathe in the lake.

Day four-
Personally, I think that our Lost Lake camp spot appeared magically just for our enjoyment and disappeared as soon as we left the next morning. Brett and I left while Ryan was still inside his sleeping bag. At our pace, it wouldn’t be long before he caught up to us. I just hoped he wouldn’t disappear along with the rest of the campsite when it went Poof!
We met up with him later in the morning and went on a short side trip bushwhacking through a side trail overgrown with big, fat, ripe huckleberries up to Buck Peak. Contrary to popular belief you do NOT have to be buck naked to hike this trail.

We were still inside the watershed but had enough water to make it to the evening’s destination, Indian Springs, twelve or so miles from our previous camp. We plodded along waiting for the boundary marker showing we’d left Bull Run. When it finally appeared, we did the math. Had we really only been walking one mile an hour?! How disheartening. This was going to be a REALLY long day. Then the next way point, a deserted road, appeared way too soon. Huh? It turns out that the boundary marker was not placed at the boundary at all but way outside the watershed. Go figure...

We met with wonderful views of range after range of Cascade foothills. I had never before realized how mountainous the entire area is between Mount Hood and the Willamette Valley, not a speck of level land was to be seen in the vista. In spite of the forest fire haze we saw Mount Adams and a glimpse of Mount Rainier in the far distance.

Shortly, Brett sucked the last of his water but it was only a half mile or so to our stopping point. My water ran out just as we reached camp. How perfectly we’d planned our water, not carrying a bunch of extra weight! Or so we thought... After twenty minutes or so of searching, we couldn’t find the spring. We knew it was there somewhere but it was getting late and the next water and campsite was a mere two and a half more miles away. Should we keep looking, burning up the minutes, or set out for a sure thing?

Our twelve mile day turned into fifteen at that point. It was a forced march, sans water. I was practically trail running like that AT through hiker. At one point we took off our packs, removed the hydration bladders and sipped the last little drops trapped in their bottoms. Brett had a dubious look on his face when I soon said that I smelled water. Ryan, who’d gone ahead of us (surprise,surprise,) came trotting around the bend towards us with a wet bandana and a bottle of lake water. He was amazed that we were so close and told us that we were only a couple hundred yards from Wahtum Lake. Phew...

A couple of nights earlier, Brett had unveiled a weighty surprise. He had produced an official Scrabble dictionary, a thing that must’ve added at least a half a pound to his pack. I ended up wanting to use it as TP after I lost a challenge to his use of the word “et.” That worthless dictionary verified it as a legal play, defining et as the past tense of the verb to eat. Sheesh! After our parched run to Wahtum Lake, it seemed like the perfect time to pull out my surprise extra weight items: four ounces of tequila, a packet of a salt and a fresh lime. Ole!

Day five-
This was glorious. We could leave our camp set up, don a tiny day pack and head out for a day hike. Ryan was having none of it. He packed all his stuff up, took my map and headed out for a longer hike to the east. Figuring he might not make it back that evening he planned on meeting up with us, the mere Section Hikers, sometime the next afternoon. We went along the shore of the lake, meeting up with fishermen and car campers, then headed up to Tomlike Mountain. The Mountain Gentian were still in bloom, brilliant little pieces of the sky transformed into late summer flowers. Walking the twisting path through a dwarf pine forest near the summit I felt like there might be leprechauns picnicking around the next bend. This was a very special place, one I’d like to visit again when the air isn’t filled with smoke. My mind’s eye has seen the view but I’d love for my real eyes to see it too.

Backtracking to the main trail we continued around the lake and up another peak, Chinidere. The wind was howling up there but the virtual view was once again stunning. It was all downhill from there, not necessarily a good thing for Brett’s knees. Fortunately for me, this trip didn’t result in much more than a sore Achilles tendon for me but Brett got his turn with the blisters. I stuffed a heart shaped rock into my pack and we headed back to camp. It was still light out when we hit the sleeping bags that night. It had been a series of long days and I think they’d caught up with me.

Day six-
It was time to diverge from the PCT. We took the much more scenic route down the Eagle Creek watershed. This is one of my all time favorite trails, one I always take out of town visitors to see. In the past I’d hiked in six or seven miles from the Columbia River but this would be coming in the reverse direction. Along the way we met some easy-on-the-eyes young men and I found a great T shirt in my favorite color, in my size to boot! We figured we’d see Ryan some time that morning.

There were new waterfalls that neither of us had seen before, mostly unnamed. Finally, we came to the falls I always call Criss Cross because the two plummeting streams cross paths on their way over the craggy basalt. This was the farthest into the canyon I’d ever hiked in the past. The sun was warming the rocks and it was lunchtime. Stop! Remove shoes! Eat! Sleep! No Ryan to be seen.

After a good snooze, we got all of our stuff together and headed down the canyon toward our chosen campsite. We checked letterboxes along the way and I found the one of Brett’s that he’d hidden last summer. Then disaster struck. Brett, AKA Data Man, realized he’d lost his data sheet. He no longer could check distances and elevations as he’d been doing along the entire trek. Oh dear! Fortunately, we were near the end and on familiar terrain.

Moments later, a disheveled Ryan appeared, rumpled data sheet in hand. He’d found it along the trail and knew it was most likely Data Man’s property. The Green Tortuga saves the day! It was late in the afternoon but even as tired as everyone was at that point we decided to walk to the last official campsite before the trailhead. That would leave us with a mere seven miles between breakfast and the Dream Destination, Charburger in Cascade Locks. The call of a burger had been luring us for days.

Day seven-
Just like all the days before, we saw not a drop of rain. We headed down the trail meeting up with lots of day hikers. They were all sooooo clean... and those tiny packs on their backs! Lucky folks. At the trailhead, we stopped to answer a pollsters questions about the trails but didn’t dally much longer on our way to Charburger.

Just before you get to the restaurant, in the parking lot, there are usually Indians selling salmon. This day was no exception. One young Indian boy looked at our grubby selves and said, “Canada?” I guess we look enough like through hikers that we had him fooled. No one blinked an eye as we went into the restaurant, claimed a table, dropped our packs and ordered tons of food. Onion rings, french fries, salad, burgers, huckleberry pie...yum.

During lunch the boys hatched a plan to cross the mighty Columbia on the Bridge of the Gods. I had always wondered how a pedestrian maneuvers along with the cars on that narrow span. It turns out PCT hikers get to cross without paying the fifty cent walkers toll and the cars be damned. They just have to go at your pace. Such a deal... We walked into our neighboring state, completing the walk from Timberline to Washington, a trek of sixty plus miles when you added in the side trips. Woo Hoo!