Sometimes, it’s good to simply sweat out life. And sometimes, nothing
accomplishes that like a good ol’ fashioned slog. True to my northern European ancestry
(insert I am a very sturdily built woman of Scottish and Norwegian descent), I
love the cold. And I sweat like a burly beast when I’m exercising.
Which brings us to me, head down, attempting to coordinate legs and
lungs, in a 3000’ elevation gain, 4 mile climb to the Cooper Spur shelter.
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| Views of Hood through the burn- a little over halfway to the A-frame |
Driving through the Gorge this morning, then through Hood River and
Parkdale, I contemplated the wisdom of my decision. Pieces of sunrise briefly
glittered during my dawn drive down I-84 but only hinted that the sun may
break through today. My Subaru was buffeted by strong winds all the way to Hood
River. I was going to snowshoe the north side of Hood in this?
I held on to my plan though- the weather on the mountain had looked
promising. I’m also not too proud to turn around, I’ve done it before. Picking
up my annual snow park pass at the ranger station in Parkdale, I assured the
concerned Forest Service employee of my plans and relative experience level:
yes, I was prepared for multiple snow conditions; yes, someone has my
itinerary; yes, I know where I’m going/familiar with the area; yes, I have a
map, ten essentials (and then some), etc, etc, etc.
Most Forest Service employees that I encounter are decently helpful,
but I imagine burned out and fatigued by the bureaucracy that comes from
working in government (I was a government employee for ten years, I remember
the feeling). I also have to wonder how weary they must get of people going
into wilderness unprepared.
Coming down from the Ornament Trail the other day, about 2.5 miles from
the lodge, I encountered a young woman who stopped me and asked, “So how far is
it the viewpoint?” I remember looking at her, baffled for a minute (there
aren’t really any views on the Larch Mountain trail, not until Sherrard Point),
and then asked (probably more like squeaked in surprise): “You mean Larch?”
“Yeah. It is close?”
UM. No? It’s about 7.5 miles from the lodge, and you haven’t even hit
the halfway point (<= this was my inner monologue, not outer monologue
speaking).
She looked disappointed, then smiled and said, “Well, I guess we’ll see
if I make it.”
I try very hard not to judge people’s abilities in wilderness; god only
knows there are more fit, less apprehensive people than myself. Maybe this gal
was a phenomenal trail runner, with lungs like an elephant. All I know is that
when someone asks me how far to the top it is at 1:30pm, and they have no gear
with them at all, I wonder what they expect they will find further up.
Years ago, coming down from a South Sister climb, finally almost to our
Green Lakes campsite, Andy and I encountered a gentleman in nothing but a
t-shirt and jean shorts, a one-gallon jug of water in each hand, coming up the
mountain. It was 4:45pm.
“Hey! How far is it to the top?”
Andy and I looked at each other, sun-fried, dirty, thrilled with our
day, and stunned. “Hours, you have hours of climbing ahead of you” we said.
He looked disappointed and skeptical, and continued on his way, two
young boys alongside.
So, I sometimes wonder what I look like to other people…over-prepared? Ridiculous?
Crazy? I guess the fact that I showed up in Chacos at the ranger station didn’t
help matters.
Arriving at the Tilly Jane snow park, I did ponder the wisdom of my
plan. Driving through Parkdale and heading up the Cooper Spur road, the fog was
as thick and nebulous as I’ve ever seen. Once at the trailhead though, roughly
3800’ in elevation, the sky looked like it was trying really hard to burn
through the cloud cover. So, I layered up, deciding to give it a go. Burdened
with water, winter gear, food, and my snowshoes strapped to my pack for the
first little while, I figured if nothing else it would be a good calorie burn.
About a half mile into the trail, I figured out we were experiencing an
inversion. It was warming up. The sky was blue. By the time I popped into the
burn zone, it was bluebird. Zero wind. Warm enough I had to strip layers or
risk sweating myself through.
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| popping out above the clouds |
I was grinning ear to ear though. I was the only one around, the
benefit of hiking trails mid-week. Hood loomed before me, Adams and Rainier
behind me, rising above the clouds. Geared up, I slogged on, my goal the Cooper
Spur shelter, still some 2000+ feet above me.
Marut
and I tackled the Tilly Jane trail this last summer- now, there are no
flowers. Only the contrast of silver and burned snags against blue sky and
white snow. I am mesmerized by shadows, by the blue and purple hues the snow
takes on in changing light conditions. At the A-frame, I take a breather,
refuel some calories, then set out in deeper, heavier snow for the mile + climb
to the shelter.
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| shadow play in the old burn zone |
Three and half miles into my slog, I start giggling (<= caloric
deficit talking). This is why most of my hiking friends think I’m insane. Who does this for fun?
It’s no secret that
the north
side of Hood near Cooper Spur is one of my favorite places in the world-
usually, I come here alone, when I need to be in my own head, to recharge, when
I’m looking for some sort of spiritual reset. Today, I need
my mountain;
I need this very, very quiet and unforgiving place. The high alpine always has
a scoured out quality, one of unrelenting honesty. It sets boundaries, teaches
harsh lessons, gives no quarter, and reflects back all shortcomings, all
misconceptions. It’s a place I go when I need to take a very hard look at myself,
my life, to come to terms with issues. And then let it all go.
Winter in the mountains has a different quality. We are always only
visitors. Today though, I feel very, very small. And grateful simply to have
made it, to stay and linger for a while. I am above the inversion. And it is
beautiful.
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| <3 why the climb is worth it <3 |
