My Other Bike is Shadowfax

REACH THE BEACH 2012

American Lung Association charity ride

Newberg to Pacific City, Oregon, ~80 miles

5:30 am on a cool, but clear Saturday. M arrives at my house and loads my bike, along with four others, into his truck. We pick up three additional riders, one family member and Burgerville breakfast sandwiches on our way to Newberg. In Newberg, said family member becomes the most intelligent person in the vehicle as she then takes off to drive the truck to Pacific City. The remaining five of us clip into our bikes and begin pedaling our way to the coast.

Newberg start: still clean

Last year I bought a bike. It was supposed to be for fun rides and commuting. I've been chased by geese, dodged bunnies and dogs, and lost battles with some railroad tracks. I commute to the OHSU tram regularly for the trip up to school. I'm a poser cyclist. My dear friends, M&A, love road cycling and triathlons. Somehow, somewhere, sometime a few months ago, they persuaded me to participate in Reach the Beach, a fundraiser for the American Lung Association, that involves biking from various start points to the coast. For the last five years, it's been a family affair for them, typically involving a Newberg start which puts the course at 80 miles (85ish when you include the in-town Pacific City mileage that is getting to and from a rented beach house). 

Funny how anything that is a few months away feels completely do-able. The closer you arrive to the doing, however, the less do-able that anything feels. Today, I'm wondering if I really can keep up with the four other people I am with, or whether I'm going to be calling Andy to come scrape me and my sure-to-be-jello-limbs off the side of the road somewhere.  

44° and sunny in Newberg made for a cool beginning to the ride, but the rolling hills of the Oregon wine country quickly warms us up. It's beautiful country, punctuated here and there by little farm houses, front yards in full bloom with the newly arrived spring. I've driven here many, many times, but taking the countryside in via a two-wheel point of view is so very different. I consider myself a hiker and not a bike person, and experiencing the road from bike, touring the countryside that way, has never really occurred to me. Yet rolling up and over and down the hills between Newberg and Amity into the Willamette Valley, I am completely enamored and becoming addicted to the feel of my bike eating up the miles, chatting in easy camaraderie with my friends and their family.

I will admit it definitely helps to be on a fully supported ride- rest stops with water, electrolyte replacements, granola bars, PB&J sandwiches and cookies every ten to fifteen miles makes the day much easier. 

A&M: love these two crazies

Amity to Sheridan lies deep in the heart of Willamette Valley agricultural land. The road feels built for cyclists- flat but curving, hugging the invisible property lines of farms. At one point, as we pass the Brigittine monastery just outside of Amity, I seriously contemplate stopping for truffles. Random fact I learned many, many years ago. But seriously, these gentleman make The. Best. Truffles. Ever.  

Upon hitting Sheridan, approximately forty miles into the ride and the halfway point, I am officially on the longest bike ride I have ever accomplished. M&A had been taking me on training rides prior to RTB, but I had only ever made it up to thirty-five miles. A fifty mile weekend was kaboshed by illness, and school mayhem/homework chaos sabotaged another planned long training ride. But, as A so quaintly stated before we set off, by Sheridan it's just a far to go home as to complete the ride. So, Sheridan becomes the committed point. 

Still life at Sheridan rest stop

 

Sometime after Sheridan, the long, gradual winding climb over the Coastal Range begins. I have been dreading the hills, and although I slow down to tortoise speed on a few climbs, mostly I am finding myself in the cycling zone, and no one is more surprised than me. I am in love with the day, with the scenery, and sharing fantastic company on a journey I really wasn't sure I could complete, but am finishing strong. Suddenly, without warning, I find myself cresting the coast range, sixty miles into the ride, a long downhill portion stretching before us and Pelican Pub beer in Pacific City calling our names. 

cresting the Coast Range

The five of us finish strong, even given the rushing headwind that fills the final fifteen miles to the coast via Highway 22. The air changes, now salty, cool and fresh as we turn on to the famous 101 and make our way along the final, remaining miles to Pacific City. The road is lined with families and cowbells, honking, hollering and clanking as approximately 3,000 cyclists wind their way to the finish line. It's pure chaos at the Pelican, my legs are sorely confused being asked to use different muscles to walk (what's that?), and we're all cheap, one beer dates at this point in the day.  

Pure cyclist chaos at Pacific City

I love my friends.

**To those of you who donated, a huge THANK YOU. Signature events are one of the main ways the American Lung Association raises dollars to support it's research, education, advocacy and community service on various lung diseases. So while it's a supported ride, those of us who ride pay for that privilege, and fundraised dollars support the mission. Thank you, again.**

April Fool's

HERMAN CREEK TRAIL TO INDIAN POINT

Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area, Oregon

~8 miles, 2600 feet elevation gain

Four good friends. Two trails. Unexpected conditions.  

snow levels are unexpectedly low

nearing Indian Point on the Gorton Creek trail

Gorton Creek trail

this is why I love the gorge

Chasing Waterfalls

Elowah Falls, Upper McCord Falls, Gorge Trail 400

Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area, Oregon

~4 miles, ~600 feet

I had plans for today, about eight-miles-more-than-the-four-I-accomplished worth of plans. Today, I learned (thought I already knew this but clearly actions speak louder than words) it would be helpful to read signs before hitting the trail.

About a half mile beyond Elowah Falls on Gorge Trail 400, I hit this:

Huh. 

Upon return to the parking lot, I saw this:

What I was trying to do today was create a leg stretching jaunt connecting the Elowah/Upper McCord area with the Wahclella Falls area to the east using about 3.1 miles of Gorge Trail 400 as the connector. Somewhere along the way,  I guess the Oregon Department of Transportation received federal funding for a grand construction project to revitalize a new section of the Historic Highway. This means lots of construction and blasting. And no trail. However, it's a really, wicked cool project so it's hard for me to be angry about it even if it did screw up my plans for the day.

If there is one thing I have learned about hiking, you win some and you lose some.

That said, the four mini miles passed in that beautiful, spring green fashion the gorge assumes as April nears- not quite leafed out, but surely contemplating bursting into full color soon. The gorge is always green, but in the spring it's really, really green. I did my best to avoid squashing banana slugs and getting the proverbial big fat water drop perfectly aimed down the back of my neck off some overhanging tree branch- failed on both accounts. But I delighted in the mud and the little bits of color springing forth, tiny trillium blooms here and there, and the sword fern fronds brushing me in some places up to the waist as they peeled themselves skyward off the forest floor.

Sometimes, it just doesn't have to be a long hike.

Upper McCord Falls

Hamilton & a still-snowy Table Mountain

Elowah Falls

Getting the most out of the Sno-Park pass

 Huh. My hair is frozen.

(Now mind you, I am no stranger to my hair freezing; I've been in too many nasty, blustery mountain conditions to not be acquainted with that crusty, clumpy, dripping sensation of haircicles touching my collarbone. But this was a bluebird day.)

Oh. It's the sweat in my hair that froze. [Gross.] 

WHITE RIVER CANYON-BOY SCOUT RIDGE

Mount Hood National Forest, Oregon

~5 miles, ~1800 feet

Yesterday, while on a slog around the neighborhood block to work the cobwebs out of my brain, it began snowing on me. Well, more like the rain was *thinking* it might fully convert to snow, but that's beside the point. The point is that those fat, icy pieces of falling sky were enough to have my snow withdrawal come crashing to the surface, enough that I was contemplating skipping class and taking a mental health day (clearly it's that time in the term where I am beyond being reasoned with, and most days I just want to throw my computer out the window).

Checking my school email that night, I see in my inbox that class is cancelled due to professor illness.

Wow. The stars really aligned here. If that's not a message, I don't know what is.

Regarding the snow withdrawal, it has just been that kind of a year. Beyond the obvious school thing taking up a large chunk of my time, snow levels on the mountain are acting bonkers, flitting from pass levels (where the trailheads are) up to mountaineering levels (where the goats go). Hood had the beginnings of a nice winter coat in November, then December and January passed with a seeming snow drought, just intermittent sun and rain. Lately, my backyard mountain will see a glorious dumping of fluffy white stuff only to have the freezing level rise the next day which, of course, means rain all over that glorious new snow. To top it all off, lovely new snow time never coincides with when I can actually get myself up to the mountain- it's been a vicious, irritating cycle.

[Soapbox over.]

My annual sno-park pass really needs to see more action.

Like I said, the stars aligned.

I arrived at the White River Sno-Park at 10:45am to 22° and bluebird. Jackpot. My goal was Boy Scout Ridge, some almost 3ish miles away near the head of the White River Canyon. The White River Sno-Park is one of the most popular places on Mount Hood, so the first 1/4 mile is almost always a mad throng of families and dogs and sleds and people in varying stages of snow sport ability. Today, it was blissfully quiet, only two groups getting out on the trail in front of me.

The snow was good; better than good, actually: fantastic. It was approaching almost sugar quality, that coveted Wasatch-type snow Andy and I seek out in Utah on semi-annual ski trips, but that we never, ever get here unless the temperature happens to plunge into the teens or lower. Even then, it's only *sugary* relative to our Cascade Concrete. Whatever, for here, it's bomb diggity, and I was mooooore than happy with it.

Breaking trail for almost three miles through it though was going to be fun. 

first tracks

Most snowshoers head up the lower slopes of Boy Scout Ridge just past the White River Canyon's "Bowl" about a quarter mile beyond the sno-park. I continued straight, following the undulating, snowbound river's edge, settling into the rhythm of my lungs and legs working in concert as I continued across the smooth, white world. 

By the time I reached a bend in the river with no snow bridge to cross, I was breaking trail through roughly a foot of sugary snow. Beautiful. Taxing. But also exhilarating. On a personal note, fitness is something I have struggled with over the last decade- to be able to break trail to this degree says to me I am regaining what I lost, and that I can continue on this journey forward.

From here, I popped up a tiny ridge to the left and slogged through intermittently burned, sparse forest on my way to my goal. Mount Hood rose in the distance, beyond the head of the White River Canyon, Boy Scout Ridge, my goal, to my left. I stood for a while, taking in the views, the shape and relief of the stark, white world and watched a random, backcountry snowboarder make some turns down the ridge.

Instead of heading up the traditional knife edge path to the top of Boy Scout Ridge, I picked a path to the left of where the snowboarder had just come down and prepared to get to work. It was going to be a trudge. Here, wind had packed a tremendous amount of snow into this gully- a hard, icy layer, perfect for my snowshoes to grip, could be found under two plus feet of powdery brilliance. In places, I was almost up to my hips as I put one foot in front of the other, my trekking poles nearly to the hilts as I climbed the ridge. Halfway up I pondered the wisdom of my decision but stubbornness prevailed, and I continued onward.

I won. Cresting the top of Boy Scout Ridge, I set about re-layering, making lunch and discovering the frozen hair debacle. After wandering around a bit, the light changed, a stormy, brooding quality settling over the area, and I decided to make my way back. My mental health day was complete- I was exhausted, settled and in a perfect space of physical and emotional contentment.

lunch

Mount Hood beyond Boy Scout Ridge

eerie light in the White River Canyon

On the way back, the light changed and I impromptu sat down for a snowshoe feet picture: my new favorite. [GRIN]

Study Break

BOUNDARY TRAIL 1

Mount Saint Helens National Monument, Washington

~8 miles, ~1600 feet elevation gain

**Nature deficit disorder, related to full time nursing program, secondary to midterms, projects, clinicals and volunteer events, as evidenced by patient reports 10/10 pain, self-reported longing for the outdoors, pallor, grouchiness, mood swings and distraction.** 

February FakeOut has arrived, those anomalous winter days punctuated by sun and warmth, where the world actually has time to dry out before nature rips the proverbial rug out from under us until June-ish. I have no hard data to support this beyond what my scattered brain wants to believe, but February FakeOut seems to arrive every year here in Portland: just when you think you cannot take another day of the deluge, the soggy pant hems, the tip-toeing through leaf-clogged puddles, the steel gray sky.... POOF! Sun! We've had over a week of clear, windy skies torturing me from the windows of clinical, taunting me during my slog up the hill to lecture. It is gor-geeeee-ous outside. And right now, I am badly in need of a mental health day. Being neck deep in chronic illness 24/7 is making me twitchy.

Pharmacology be damned, I'm going outside.

It feels exceedingly strange to put on sun block.

One of the things I love about the alpine is its ever changeable mood. We were looking for an eclectic hike, full of views and shifting conditions so we headed north to one of our favorite areas, the blast-tortured north face of Mount Saint Helens. On our way up long, winding Washington State Route 504, Andy commented how strange it is that people travel from across the globe to visit Helens, yet for us, she is practically in our backyard- a beloved recreational area. Living in the Pacific Northwest is not for everyone, but it is necessary for souls like ours.

The area near Johnston Ridge never fails to fascinate me. Here, the north face of the mountain fell away, scouring an entire new landscape in its wake as it deposited the largest (recorded, mind you, recorded) landslide in history down the valley of the North Fork of the Toutle River. The pyroclastic blast felled old growth like toothpicks, and the splintered remains of the ancient forest still litter the ridgelines. Whole new lakes were formed while others were obliterated, the entire area basically picked up in a giant fist, remolded, and set down again upon the earth.

Boundary Trail, January 2011

We arrived at the Hummocks trailhead to sun, bluebird skies, and basically being overdressed. Patches of icy snow lingered but nothing tangible enough for the snowshoes strapped to our packs. Our sights were aimed higher though, so the snowshoes stayed on.

The Hummocks trail is an interpretive trail, which I usually tend to avoid like the bubonic plague. But this one, I give credit to: it's an outstanding (and unpaved, thank god), undulating, 2.5 mile walk through the hammered landscape of the North Fork of the Toutle River, where the landslide deposited 3.7 billion cubic yards of earth fourteen miles down the valley. You literally walk upon ruined pieces of the mountain's previous summit- hummocks.

From the Hummocks trail, we picked up the Boundary trail, which quickly winds its way up the ridgeline on its way to Johnston Ridge Observatory. Once around a corner, the wind found us and remained fierce for the remainder of our hike.

Upon hitting wind-scoured snow, the trail was lost, and in this area, there is no hope of finding any trace of trail once it is gone. So tortured, so unique is the landscape, no semblance of any path remains once it disappears under snow. In summer, the Boundary trails hugs the cliffs, traipsing its delicate, precarious way to the observatory. With the snow and wind and the awkwardness of snowshoes strapped to our feet, we stayed high and left of the trail, climbing a large promontory overlooking the Loowit Viewpoint. 

Here, the true nature of the 1980 eruption becomes painfully clear, the landscape literally pounded flat, scoured naked and raw by the mountain. In the summer, the pumice, riding the almost-always-windy landscape, soaks into everything: hair, teeth, eyelashes, nose, camera gear. It's like taking a bath in a crystallized sand dune.

Hugging the cliffs, March 2010

I sat, buffeted by the wind, watching the mountain, my vision tracing the undulating lines left over by the landslide, taking in the tormented color of the earth, the snow-covered silhouettes of the Mount Margaret backcountry and Mount Adams gracing the skyline. I sat for a long time, until I was almost too cold to move, even though I was now wearing everything I owned. From the trailhead, the temperature had dropped 25 degrees.

These are the days I need to remain grounded, to resettle my soul, to remain humbled in the face of all that is before me. 

Time to tackle pharmacology again. 

Corps of Discovery

A costal vacation, following in the footsteps of Lewis and Clark.

LEADBETTER POINT STATE PARK, Washington

Willapa Bay, Leadbetter Point State Park

CAPE DISAPPOINTMENT STATE PARK, Washington

Beard's Hollow

where the Columbia meets the Pacific

ECOLA STATE PARK, Oregon

Indian Beach at Ecola

 

Year in Review

A la niña winter. A warm, rain-ridden spring followed by late season snow storms. A cool summer and a high alpine backpacking season frequently thwarted by the lingering snowpack. Snowshoeing. New solo hikes. Blisters. Yellowstone. Spain. Bike wrecks & getting chased by geese. Although recently I haven't been out as much as I would have liked (due to this little thing called SKOOL), t'was a good year.

This is mostly just a trail summary, with some of my favorite pictures from last year.

JANUARY

Tamanawas Falls snowshoe, Mt. Hood Wilderness: ~4.5 miles, ~500 ft elevation change.

frozen Tamanawas Falls

Boundary Trail, MSH National Monument: ~6 miles, ~1000 ft elevation change.
Coyote Wall, Columbia River Gorge: ~12 miles, ~1950 ft elevation change.

Eagle Creek, Columbia River Gorge: ~9 miles, ~600 ft elevation change.

FEBRUARY  
We spent February 13th-18th in Yellowstone National Park. It's one of the best trips I have ever taken.

MARCH

Hummocks/Boundary Trail snowshoe, MSH National Monument: ~5.5 miles, ~1200 ft elevation change.

Helens' winter coat

APRIL

Swale Canyon, Klickitat Trail, Washington: ~6.5 miles, ~200 ft elevation change.

Multnomah-Franklin Ridge Loop, Columbia River Gorge: ~12 miles, ~2650 ft elevation change.

Dog Mountain, Columbia River Gorge: ~7.5 miles, ~2820 ft elevation change.

MAY

Hamilton Mountain, Columbia River Gorge: ~8 miles, ~2100 ft elevation change.

Hamilton & the Gorge

Ruckle Creek Trail, Columbia River Gorge: ~7 miles, ~2660 ft elevation change.

JUNE

Swift Creek Trail, MSH National Monument: ~4.5 miles, ~1000 ft elevation change.

JULY

Burnt Lake Trail, Mt. Hood Wilderness: ~6.8 miles, ~1500 ft elevation change.

Grassy Knoll,Wind River Recreation Area: ~4.4 miles, ~1200 ft elevation change.

Mount Saint Helens Climb: 12 miles, 5600 ft elevation change.

Worm Flows climbing route

Little Baldy, Silver Star Scenic Area: ~8.4 miles, ~1600 ft elevation change. 

Ed's Trail, Silver Star Scenic Area: ~5.5 miles, ~1400 ft elevation change.

AUGUST

Cooper Spur, Mt. Hood Wilderness: ~8 miles, ~2800 ft elevation change. 
Goat Lake backpack, Goat Rocks Wilderness, Washington: 13 miles roundtrip, ~1770 ft elevation gain

moonrise over Ives Peak & Old Snowy

Wallace Falls State Park, Washington: 5.5 miles, 1200 ft elevation gain

SEPTEMBER

Santiam Pass-Canyon Creek Meadows-PCT Loop, Mt. Jefferson Wilderness: ~25 miles, no idea. 
Zig Zag Canyon Overlook, Mt. Hood: ~5 miles, no idea.

Paradise Park, Mt. Hood Wilderness: ~12.3 miles, 2300 ft elevation gain

flowers galore in Paradise

OCTOBER

Ingalls Lake backpack, Alpine Lakes Wilderness: ~10 miles, 2500 ft elevation change

Butte Camp Trail, MSH National Monument: ~8.5 miles, ~1700 ft elevation gain

NOVEMBER

(Nothing but project, project, paper, paper, exam, exam.)

DECEMBER

Coyote Canyon Trail, Columbia River Gorge: ~6ish miles? elevation gain unknown
Larch Mountain Trail, Columbia River Gorge: ~8 miles, ~2800 feet elevation gain

~220.3 miles, ~40,400 feet elevation gain. 

Hide and Seek

COYOTE CANYON TRAIL

Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area, Washington

~6ish miles?

The Coyote Wall is a relatively new trail complex on the Washington side of the gorge, just past Hood River. The giant basalt cliff lies in that fascinating transition zone between the stormy, damp western half of the gorge and its drier, golden-hued, eastern counterpart. From I-84, the Coyote Wall looks to plunge on a long, angled slide into the Columbia River; it never fails to grab my attention on any drive through the gorge. Until recently, the area was private range property which is now quickly turning into a mountain biking mecca. 

the cattle chute

Hikers are welcome here, but make no mistake, the trail complex here was built for and is maintained by cyclists. Watch uphill and be polite- hikers are the guests here.

That said, cycling trails completely screw with any hiker sense of direction I might have. Rocky and I set off mid-morning to attempt the Coyote Wall (short) loop in reverse, heading up the Coyote Canyon trail, the wall still visible from the lower part of the trail but disappearing into thick fog higher up. My dog took off, a joyous, bounding, deer-colored streak zooming along S-curves and soft dirt built for mountain biking whoop-de-whoops which made no sense to my hiker legs. Still, it was a gorgeous, winter hike through bare-branched oak forest, the meadows littered with umber colored leaves, silver-green moss clinging to any surface allowing it to thrive. 

a little mountain biker boulder garden

This was my third visit to the Coyote Wall complex, and it is officially one of my beloved winter/early season hikes. A good friend and I first visited in April 2010: we were greeted by an explosion of balsam root and lupine flowers, and we also got very lost, accidently ending up on private property while attempting to navigate the complex of trails and roads still left over in the area. Since we didn't have any wine or cheese, back the way we came.

Bring wine & cheese next time

 

My second visit consisted of myself, Andy and two dear friends attempting to complete the Coyote Wall (long) loop in typical January conditions.  We traipsed along the narrow, narrow, narrow Crybaby Trail, the cliffs spooky and beautiful in dense fog. During this trip I noticed the Wizard Trail junction plunging down the wall and filed it away in my mental hiking rolodex for future reference. We made it down a private road to what we *thought* was our trail junction but ended up far north and west of the wall when we finally popped out of the woods. Whoopsies. From there, it was cross-country and down and to an angle to find our way back to the trailhead. 

Not for crybabies

I'm not sure why I chose to begin the loop clockwise instead of counterclockwise in terrain I already knew. Probably had something to do with Rocky bounding off like a crack head just past the cattle gate. Decision made. Regardless, as I progressed higher up the trail into thick, dense fog, I couldn't help but admire the trail from a two-wheel point of view. Make no mistake, I am NO mountain biker- I'm more likely to run headfirst into a tree than make it downhill intact. Still, if I were more talented, I might consider it: this single track looked like a helluva lot of fun.

 

Approximately two miles from the cattle gate, I found the nearly invisible-to-spot junction with the Wizard Trail. I turned right and soon stumbled across a second junction I had not read about. Hmmmm. One fork was marked with blue flagging but looked less used, the other fork was more distinct, but unflagged.  

Just to completely screw with any iron I might have in my nose, the entire forest was shrouded in one of the densest layers of fog I have ever hiked in. I knew the Coyote Wall was looming almost directly in front of me and that I needed to be climbing up it, but I couldn't see it. There was absolutely no sense of direction. I wandered around both forks for a while before eventually deciding to head up the left (unflagged) fork. Here it was clear the trail sees little to no use, no evidence of hiking boots or bike wheels marred the thick layer of oak leaves. And again, biking trails make no sense for hiking legs- the little loop-de-loops and whoop-de-whoops make the trail feel like it is consistently going the wrong direction. 

Poor planning on my part. Oh well. With no map and no printed trail directions with me, I chose instead  to just wander through the glorious, fog-shrouded woods for a while. Eventually I happened upon a section of trail that looked like I might actually be on the right path, and proceeded to almost immediately lose the trail in wet meadow and fog. Hmmmm. I perched atop a rock for a while, watching mist play between tree branches, and surprised myself by feeling very much a child again. My agenda for the day had failed, but I had found an unexpected and coveted space of emotion: I felt secretive, hidden, lost in the woods, queen of my own domain. There was no one else around. 

Eventually I returned the way I came, and upon further analysis at home, determined I was most likely on the right track up the Coyote Wall. I was headed in a northwest direction, navigating the base of the wall (or where I *think* it was), and I passed a few signature, downed trees written about in the trail description. My expectations of what the trail should look like from a hiker point of view confused my sense of direction, but when I think about it, the trail would wander (seemingly aimless) as it slowly climbed higher along the wall. After all, what is fun for cyclists and what makes sense for hikers are two very different things.

Still, it's a brilliant area. And one that always plays hide and seek with my sense of self.

Larch Mountain Fail

Question: When do paved, interpretive trails and gorgeous waterfalls NOT mix?

Answer: Anytime the weather turns below freezing for extended periods of time. All that glorious waterfall spray? Yup, turns the path into a skating rink.

LARCH MOUNTAIN TRAIL

Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area, Oregon

~8 miles, ~2800 feet elevation gain

I had just crossed the Multnomah Falls bridge viewpoint when I was abruptly halted by a layer of solid ice, about an half inch thick. A nice gentleman just in front of me was carefully shuffling his way up the path, tossing a layer of gravel across the ice as he went. Rather than skidding out over the next 100 feet of trail, Rocky and I waited patiently behind him for the task to be complete.

"You going up to the top?"

"Yeah, something like that."

My goal today was Larch Mountain, a long, forested , straight-shot hike to the top of gorge from Multnomah Falls. Being midweek and 32 degrees at the trailhead, it made sense that I was alone- still, it's very, very odd to be heading up the Multnomah Falls trail without a soul in sight.

I love the gorge in winter. There is a remarkably stark yet vibrant quality to the area- looming cliffs shrouded in fog, silhouetted trees in the forest, the details whittled down to green mosses, ferns, rock and water, all the chaos of summer foliage gone. I rarely visit the gorge in summer: too many tourists. But in winter? This is when, for me, the gorge comes to life. 

That said, trail maintenance is zero in the winter. Mud is expected, as are slick conditions and downed trees. Given the recently dry (but oh so cold) spell holding on to the greater Portland area, the trail was remarkably ice free in areas where I expected slick conditions, and an icy wonderland in sections I would not have expected. The tiny, frozen details were enchanting.

About four miles in, growling and annoyed, I stopped to take stock of myself. I was a little over halfway to Larch when I knew I had a problem. Although I had been hiking uphill for roughly two hours and should have been in full throttle, hiking swing, my core temperature was dropping rapidly. It felt like I was fighting every muscle in my body to continue up the trail; I was feeling ill and stiff, sweat-drenched and lethargic, and I was beyond shivering even. Not a good sign.

Grrrr.

I drank some warm tea, re-layered clothing, and finally gave up on eating as I just couldn't stomach it. In the end, I made the decision to turn around. Over the last couple of months, I have had a brilliant professor who has repeatedly encouraged us to notice what is in our bodies and to ask clients to do the same. Noticing the details of how you feel, where you are in space- mentally, emotionally, physically- are a vital component to delivering care. Today, in below freezing temperatures, four miles from the trailhead with three more to go, it was better to be safe and listen to what my body was telling me. 

I took my time going downhill. I stopped frequently, drank warm tea, evaluated Rocky's feet, and took in the details of the forest. Now that I wasn't racing daylight, I stopped to soak in the minutia that calls attention to itself when we stop rushing and just take the time to be. Although the day wasn't what I planned it to be, it was, nevertheless, not a loss. 

I love winter.