Today's blog is a two-for-one because last night I didn't have my phone with me (I'll get to that later).
Yesterday the morning broke crisp and clear. There was only one direction that I had not searched for trail the night before, so I had a good idea where to start. I had camped on what I thought to be North Cinder Peak, but with the clouds gone I could now see that North Cinder was still a mile away along the ridge I was on. The trail in between went across a snow slope about 200 yards across. With limited visibility this slope had looked endless and far too steep, which is why I hadn't explored it. I decided to try it out, but noticed the cold night had frozen the snow. The slope was so slippery there would be no way to safely traverse it. The slope ran down into a shallow bowl, and the ridge I was on had a spur that ran down the margin of the slope and into the bowl. I hiked down this spur ridge, crossed the bowl, and climbed the steep hill on the other side. I was able to find the trail, but ventures like this were to be common throughout the day.
I can't recall all the times I lost the trail in snow. I know I hiked about 29 miles, and of that almost half was off trail. The morning was the worst, with the snow still hard as ice. I slipped and fell, slid down slopes, scraped up my knees, elbows, and hands. When I wasn't sliding uncontrollably I was crashing through the woods looking for trail, or when I found a section of trail, climbing the many steep sided snow piles that covered it. It was brutal and exhausting work, and a look back to the south told me I hadn't come far yet. In the picture you can see (right to left) Three Fingered Jack, South Cinder Peak, Mt. Washington (just barely sticking out above the flank of South Cinder) and North and Middle Sisters.
Somehow I managed to find the trail each time I lost it. Sometimes that would mean hiking a mile or more through snow, other times it meant canvassing the woods within a 50 yard radius. Regardless, each time I lost the trail it took more and more will power just to keep going. Fortunately, after about 6 miles, the trail had descended enough that the snow became patchy. As it continued to lose elevation the snow disappeared completely and I could recover a bit as I hiked. The trail dove down 2000 feet to Milk Creek (pictured) before beginning to climb right back up again.
I wound my way up and around to the north side of Mt. Jefferson. Of course, as I approached Jefferson Park, at the foot of the mountain, I once again entered snow. I worked my way through the huge meadow that is Jefferson Park, half in snow and half on trails flooded with snow melt. I had one more climb before I could put Mt. Jefferson behind me. It was only about 600 or 800 feet up the ridge that bordered the park to the north. However, the entire climb was through snow, and there was no sign of where the trail started up the hill. I saw a steep walled drainage that ran off the meadow and into the ridge. Judging from my map the trail should follow that drainage. I began up it, winding along for perhaps 1/4 to 1/2 a mile. The drainage ended in a small bowl with steep rock walls. From a bench in the side of the ridge above came a stream of water. It cascaded over the edge of the drainage and into a hole it had melted in the snow below. I looked down into that hole and judged it to be at least ten feet deep. Deep enough that I didn't want to be there if the rim of the snow caved in. I scrambled up the side of the bowl where the slope was least precarious, then continued as best I could up the snow covered ridge from the bench above.
After a bit of climbing I was once again able to find the trail. As it neared the ridgetop the slope turned to shale, which helped expedite snow melt. Finally at the top, I looked back and took a picture of Mt. Jefferson and Jefferson Park below. Then I turned around and caught sight of Mt. Hood in the distance. It was an awe inspiring sight, all wreathed in snow. A number of words came to mind, and they were all four lettered. I also saw the snow that lay immediately before me. Great, now I just need to find an angry 800 pound gorilla to sodomize me with a Brillo pad, then my day would be complete.
I skiid down the north side of the ridge I was on, trekked across an abutting ridge of pure shale, and crossed another two mile stretch of snow. That may sound like I'm downplaying it a bit, but honestly I'm just so sick of snow I don't even care to think about it. Finally I was down out of the snow. I took one last look back at the ridge (pictured) and booked it as fast as I could to try to make it to Olallie Lake Resort before its store closed.
I had been dreaming all day of the goodies in store at the resort. I was thinking good food, hot shower, and maybe an ice cold beer. So when I rolled in at around 7 to find a ramshackle collection of cabins, with no restaurant, you can imagine my disappointment. The situation worsened when I found out that the cabins had no electricity and no showers. Apparently people pay an arm and a leg to go there and live like "simpler times." If by "simpler" you mean "dirtier." But hey, the accommodations were luxurious by my standards, so I grabbed some groceries, rented a cabin (15% surcharge for using my VISA), and kicked back on a rickety wooden porch in time to watch the sunset. The cabin was quaint and cozy. It was lit with an oil lantern, had an old wood burning stove, and a Norman Rockwell print above the bed. I read by lantern light, ate cookies, drank wine, and enjoyed the heat radiating from the stove. Two glasses of wine and I was done. I tossed another log in the stove and stretched out on the bed.
BEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEP.
Shit! What was that!? I shook off sleep and realized there was a smoke detector up in the rafters. Who the hell puts a smoke detector in a ten by twelve foot room that has only two out of four windows that open, and whose wood burning stove belches smoke every time you open it? I jumped up, grabbed a rafter and swung myself up. There was no light because I didn't have time to light the lantern. So, sitting in the rafters, I felt around and disconnected the detector. Then I went outside to let it spend the night on the porch, like a disobedient dog. As it turns out I was lucky. I stepped out as the light was fading in the east, turning everything to shades of blue and black. Framed between dark trees was the lake, reflecting a perfect crescent moon that hung low in the sky. The air smelled of wood smoke and I could see the warm glow of oil lanterns in the windows of the other cabins. It was a scene right out of Rockwell's imagination. The quintessential American fishing retreat tucked in and ready for the hush of night, under the watchful gaze of a silver moon.
This morning I sat with a coffee and watched the fishermen at their sport. A bird of prey was diving in the lake and, by the look of it, having more luck. The reflection of Mt. Jefferson reminded me of yesterday's hard work, so I took a picture. My phone had been locked up in the store overnight. The store is the only building with electricity, and the clerk let me leave it there to charge (thus the two blogs in one today).
There is not much to say about today. I finally found what the snapping noise from my pack was. One of the two metal bars that form the internal frame has snapped. So yeah, that kinda sucks. I also discovered that, when flint knapping, I cut one of my prime nose picking fingers. I spent all morning with other fingers jammed in at all angles, trying to learn the task with my new handicap. No good. Oh don't act all disgusted, I hike all day on a dusty trail, what did you expect? Besides, it's not like I eat it. Not enough calories.
I hiked all day through dense woods, with only occasional views. I took a picture of a hillside that is either interesting logging practices as work, or the marketing team for Purina is out of control. Other than that my right foot is worse today. Something about all that snow hiking aggravated the blister under my callus. I stopped to drain it, and it took about 20 holes before I finally found it under all the layers of skin. After that I just hobbled, limped, staggered, and tried any form of locomotion that might help. Finally, after 32 miles, I dropped beside Timothy Lake.
Timothy Lake is huge, and yet I can hear every person camped around its edge as if they were parked outside my tent. Earlier I had a couple paddle their canoe past my camp. I heard them whisper "I wouldn't want to camp there," and "his tent is too close to the water." Now after limping 32 miles I really didn't care where my tent was, and besides, I had picked the only semi-level spot on the camp's steep shoreline. I felt like making a pithy comeback but was exhausted and nothing came to mind. The man was wearing one of those tiny backpacks that are only ever appropriate on 14 year old girls. I thought about yelling "yeah!? Well I don't very much care for your backpack!" That would show them. Alas I said nothing. Maybe I'll write a book about this trip just on the off chance one of them reads it. Then how they would rue their judgmental remarks about my tent placement!
Ok, I noticed I'm rambling, which means the sleepy pill is kicking in. Goodnight!
