60 Summits Project

60 Summits #56: Mount McLoughlin

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Mon, 21 Oct 2024 02:39:00 +0000

At 9,400 feet, Mt. McLoughlin is the second highest peak I've climbed in the Northwest--and it made me remember that hiking up mountains is hard and sometimes dangerous.

I'm writing this about a month after climbing McLoughlin, and I can finally do push-ups after nursing a swollen, presumably sprained wrist after a tumble down the scree-laden trail.

The trip started out great, though! In another spur of the moment decision, I convinced a friend to drive down to Medford with me on Friday. Saturday I would summit McLoughlin while he played a round of golf. I booked an airbnb and we were off to the races. During the drive, we even decided to take in a play in Ashland on Friday night.

I hit the trailhead around 7:30 a.m. the next morning and started climbing. The first mile and a half or so were pretty nice, a gentle climb through a nice forest. After that, the grade get steep and the surface gets rocky. But even that part paled in comparison to what things were like once I made it beyond the treeline: just three miles of punishingly steep rock and scree.

The biggest barrier to success in climbing McLouglin is that the trail must be followed properly or you could wander out into a huge scree field that doesn't lead anywhere. Meanwhile you're crossing a scree field, so who's to say which scree field is correct? The solution are the tiny white dots that someone (not the Forest Service, apparently, has applied to rocks along the way. Those plus a mileage post every quarter mile or so are supposed to keep you on track.

They did for me, but apparently not for a guy a saw that day. I passed him on one of the many false summits on the way to the true summit and he looked kinda ragged. I found out two weeks later that he had wandered out into the scree field but was happily retrieved by Search and Rescue.

No such fate awaited me. However, as mentioned above, I did have an accident that actually made me call into question my whole thing. It was on the way down. I was hurrying for a couple of reasons. One, to keep up with a group of hikers I was following for extra assurance I was on the right path (don't worry, I also had digital tools to keep me on track) and also because I was sure my friend was done with his golf round and I didn't want to keep him waiting!

I hit an extra-loose pile of scree and suddenly I was tumbling. I mean, I literally flipped a summersault and ended up in a heap about 7 feet down the trail from where I started. I sat there a little stunned and inventoried things. My body seemed okay, except my wrist was a little painful. I was a little wobbly as I hiked back up to grab my pole which had somehow stayed behind when I fell. But I steeled myself and started back downhill.

The rest of the downhill was uneventful and soon we were on the road for the 5 hour drive back to Portland. That's when my wrist started to swell and hurt like the dickens. Happily I wasn't driving and I was able to grab some ibuprofen when we stopped for gas to keep things under control.

I'm 4 summits away from finishing this journey and while that was a close call, since then I've hiked at Rainier, backpacked Goat Rocks, and jogged up Larch mountain again, so I fully plan to complete this project. Maybe it will switch to the 100 Summits project when I top number 60.

60 Summits #52, 53, 54, 55: DeCaLiBron

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Fri, 11 Oct 2024 01:26:00 +0000

I've been itching to get back to Colorado, where the trailheads to the summits are at a higher elevation than the highest mountains in Oregon. So when my friends Phil and Christine invited me to stay in their mountain cabin for a few days, I jumped at the chance, hoping I could get Phil to accompany me on the DeCaLiBron, a four-peak hike they had been tantalizing me with last summer.

Their cabin is outside of Alma, Colorado, a sweet little mountain town that boasts attractions like "the highest saloon in North America and "the highest gym in North America." That's because, at 10,500 feet, the whole town is the highest incorporated town in the U.S.

I arrived in Colorado on Tuesday and at the cabin on Wednesday night. On Thursday, we did a little 10-mile hiking appetizer in the area and I felt pretty good. That wouldn't last. You see, I had a certain amount of hubris when it came to altitude -- having been born and raised at 6,000 feet, I thought I wasn't truly susceptible to altitude sickness. I was sadly mistaken.

On Friday, we woke early and headed out. After a short ride on one of the worst dirt roads I'd ever been in a passenger car on, we reached the trailhead just as the sun was turning the mountain pink. First up, the "De" in DeCaLiBron -- Mount Democrat. This would be the most sustained elevation we'd gain for the entire hike. It was chilly when we got out of the car, but we got warm fast gaining more than 2,000 feet in less than 2 miles.

The trail was well-marked, and there were plenty of folks on it. It was mostly pretty pleasant except for a quarter mile of so of boulders to climb up. At the top, I was still feeling pretty good, although I could see a headache coming on.

Unfortunately, we had to descend that same boulder field before forking off to climb to the second peak, Cameron. We'd lost a lot of elevation coming off Democrat and had to reclimb almost 1,000 feet. By the time I got to the summit of Cameron, I was COOKED, suffering a lot of gastrointestinal discomfort and an increasing migraine. I considered cutting it short and heading back down, but I'm glad I didn't.

The summit of Lincoln was next. It looked worse than it ended up being, with two humps glowering. But since we didn't lose much elevation between Cameron and Lincoln, it ended up being the easiest of the four to summit.

I started to enjoy myself again as we headed along the spine of the ridge to our final mountain, Bross. We tried spotting mountain goats as we gazed down into the pretty green valley below us, but were not successful.

After tagging the summit of Bross, we started down. The elevation gain we'd experienced doing Democrat was now a loss to contend with. In less than two miles, the trail plunged close to 2,000 feet, through loose scree. To add a little fun to the mix, the clouds that had been rolling in all morning started spitting rain. It was a little sketchy to say the least, but we made it down without twisting an ankle.

A stop for coffee with an add shot at the highest coffee shop in North America did a little to address the pounding headache, but I guess that's the price of hubris and a four-summit day!

60 Summits #51: Burley Lookout

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Tue, 01 Oct 2024 04:25:00 +0000

I was looking for a way to spend on of the Summer Fridays my workplace gifted us when I noticed that the Seattle Art Museum had an exhibit of "West Coast Counterculture" art and I knew I had to head up and see it and then hit a summit to round out the weekend. Now, I could have stayed the night in Seattle and done a peak or two out in the Snoqualmie area, but I felt a little cheap and didn't want to pay Seattle prices for a room. So instead, I researched peaks between Portland and Seattle and found the Burley Lookout.

Located in the furthest north area of the vast Gifford Pinchot wilderness, the Burley Lookout is one of the last fire lookouts standing. You can even stay overnight in it if you plan ahead!

It's reached via a forested trail that features several waterfalls, including a walk-behind one that was putting out a refreshing mist. The trail ends a rutted logging road about 3 miles from the top, so it's a little bit of a grind to reach the summit.

But once you do, it's quite beautiful, with Rainier looking so close you could touch it.

60 Summits #50: Coldwater Peak

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Wed, 24 Jul 2024 23:44:00 +0000

It feels good to have a good old-fashioned adventure again. One where I may or may not make my goal and I have to overcome both my own fears as well as actual adversity.

Coldwater Peak was just the adventure to dip my toe back in.

Nestled into the blast zone of Mt. St. Helens and on the edge of the Mt. Margaret Backcountry, the hike to Coldwater Peak offers commanding views of a side of Mt. St. Helens that I wasn't familiar with.

The path I took to the peak starts at the South Coldwater trail, but really, since a landslide closed the road, it starts about a mile back (adding 2 miles to this already lengthy hike). The first thing I saw after exiting the parking lot was a doe and two fauns scampering across the closed highway. It was a nice portent.

Once on the trail, it climbs steadily alongside the beautiful Coldwater Lake (a lake that didn't exist before the volcano blew its top). This part of the hike was shady and unremarkable -- a fact that I would be incredibly grateful for in a few hours). The mountain was out of view for the time being.

After a couple miles, I saw my first bit of rusted-out busted logging equipment, a remnant of the blast. The twisted metal wasn't the only reminder of the power of the blast. The hills that surrounded me all had what looked like dash marks across them, the skeletons of trees blown down more than 40 years ago.

After another mile or two, I said goodbye to any tree cover and rose to a saddle, where I got my first glimpse of St. Helens. The hulking, topless peak seemed so close that I could touch it. By this time it was getting hot. I was about halfway to the peak and getting a little tired. The trail was mostly just fine, except for some washouts that needed a bit of care to cross because the dropoff to the side of the trail was pretty extreme. I started to think I might not reach the top that day.

Reaching another saddle, I crossed a couple of minor snow fields. Looking up, that summit looked pretty far away. I was absolutely covered in sweat and getting near the end of my water. But, I noticed that people were coming down, and that was enough of a spur to keep me going. The final trail to the top switchbacked steeply, and I rested for a few moments whenever a stubby pine tree provided a bit of shade.

And then I was on top, next to a next of radio towers both old and new. Alllll the mountains were on view, from Hood to Rainier. It was glorious. But I didn't stay long. I was too hot to eat much, so I headed on back down.

When I reached the saddle with snow fields, I shoved a bunch of it in my squeeze water filter. If I hadn't had my filter or didn't remember that snow was made of water, I would have had to turn back before the summit, since the day was HOT, even at altitude and, aside from the snow, there were no water sources on the trail.

Motoring back down, I drank bits of water as it melted and fantasized about the Hydroflask of ice water waiting for me in my car. That last mile of road walking to my car was not ideal.

60 Summits #49: Elijah Bristow 24-Hour Race

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Mon, 22 Jul 2024 07:06:00 +0000

I had to lay off the summit-chasing this spring.

I was working toward another goal: to see how far I could run in 24 hours. Turns out, it was a lot. More than I thought I could for sure.

Ultra running is a sport that centers on exploring your limits. When I finish a race successfully, it makes me think about what I might be able to conquer next.

The problem for me is that I'm slow. So while I dream about 100-mile races, I am not confident I would be able to finish one without being pulled off the course for missing a cut-off. But that doesn't mean that all long-distance races are out of the question for me.

My favorite local racing company, Go Beyond, puts on a race that is based on time, not distance. You enter the 6-hour, 12-hour or 24-hour version of the Elijah Bristow race and run however far you can during that time-frame on a course that is a flat, pleasant, wooded one-mile trail.

Now, some folks would be driven mad to run the same mile over and over (and over and over) for 24 hours, but I feel a race like this takes away so much of the anxiety I feel running a race. There are no cut-offs. You truly are running your own race--you can stop whenever you want to rest. You're never more than a mile from an aid station. Heck, you run by your car every mile and can stash whatever you want or need there.

So, I signed up. Because the course was described as "pancake flat," I knew I had to stop running up mountains and start running in circles. One thing I did to train was a modified Goggins run, in which I ran 4 miles every 4 hours for 36 hours. That turned out to be instructive--it let me know I could run at 4 in the morning and run when I was bone tired. Another day, I went to a nearby park and circled the perimeter 30 times. And on still another crazy training run, I headed out to the gorge and ran a 4-mile loop until I reached 40 miles. It took a little less than 11 hours.

My goal for the race was 100k. I was fairly confident I could make that and I wondered how much farther I'd be able to go. After all, 100 miles in 24 hours was just 4 miles an hour.

Toeing the Start Line

Even after spending the previous night in a tent in the park where the race was held, I toed the starting line feeling ready. I had trained to the best of my ability. I had carb loaded the right way (radically reducing my intake of fat and protein and increasing carbs for a couple of days in advance of the race).

And the training paid off.

I was able to just keep moving through hour after hour. I passed 20 miles, 50k, 40 miles, 50 miles. I ate pizza and watermelon and sport gels and candy. I changed out my shoes and socks whenever I felt a blister coming on.

Night fell and we kept on (well, many of us; I found out later that folks had stopped to take naps and sometimes those naps accidentally lasted 4 hours). I certainly wasn't going fast enough to make it to 100 miles, but I continued moving, sometimes jogging slowly, mostly just walking. I was certainly tired, but I didn't hallucinate (sad), even though, because the ranks of racers had thinned, I was often out on the course all by my lonesome.

Around 3 a.m, I made it to 100k (62 miles), and had a little sit-down by the fire with a cup of ramen to celebrate. But there were more laps to come, and I kept the celebration brief.

There was something very poignant about being on the trail in the wee hours. The race directors had set out fairy lights, and their warm, twinkly light lent a magical air to the night. I felt I had truly, finally joined the ultra running community. And when I began to notice the sky turning from black to pale gray as the sun made ready to rise, it was huge lift to my spirits.

In the end, I completed 72.75 miles. I'm pretty proud of making it that far. I was the top racer over 60 of any gender (okay there were only like 5 others, but still!. Side note—this kind of pure endurance activity seems to favor the female: women won both the 24- and the 12-hour Bristow this year.

Who knows if a hundred-mile race is in my future. At 61, the clock is ticking on my capacity. But continuing to push my limits will probably always be in my future and I’m so grateful that I found an arena (ultra running) where I can test those limits within a welcoming community.

60 Summits #48: The Grand Canyon

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Wed, 17 Jul 2024 02:12:00 +0000

When an opportunity to go to the Grand Canyon, see old friends, and hike around on your birthday presents itself, you don't say no.

The plan was to fly into Phoenix Friday after work; drive most of the way to the canyon and spend the night in a bunkhouse, then get up early and try for a solo rim-to-river to rim hike the next day. And that is mostly what happened.

The bunkhouse was not conducive to sleeping, so I slid out of bed around 4:30 and drove through the darkness until I reached the Canyon, where I was rewarded by my first view of it being bathed in pink sunrise light. I fell in love immediately.

Bright Angel, the main Grand Canyon trail was closed at the time, making the Kaibab trail super crowded. On the advice of Coach Willie, I decided to do a trail on the eastern edge of the park, the Tanner trail.

The Tanner offered incredible views, many fewer people (I think I saw 10-12 over the whole day), and a steep descent into the Canyon. On March 30, the rim was cold, and I started the day out in microspikes and a down jacket. The downhill was punishing--rocky switchbacks covered with a thin and slippery layer of snow and ice.

But within a half hour, the ice was in the rear view and I had descended more than a thousand feet. Temps were 20 degrees warmer at that level and I paused to shed some layers.

I had hit a plateau midway to the bottom of the canyon. I had started in a little side canyon, but on the plateau, ever step took me closer to the grandeur of the main canyon and views were simply indescribable. The colorful geological layers against a brilliant blue sky knocked my eyes out.

My plan was to go down to the mighty Colorado, which started to come in to view as I glided on down the trail, filter water, and head back up. Problem was, I started to run out of both time and water. Of course I had a headlamp and warm clothes in case I got caught by the sunset, but the larger problem was that snow was predicted at 5 p.m. that evening and I was more nervous about driving my rental though a blizzard than I was getting caught in one on the trail.

So I did what I always do when I'm alone and needing to make decision: I set firm boundaries that would give me lots of leeway for mistakes. I vowed to go until 11:30--four and a half hours from my start time, thinking that going up would take me an hour longer than going down had. Because, you know, I had lost 5,000 feet of elevation that I would need to gain again to reach my car at the rim.

All too soon 11:30 was upon me (well, I did let it go until 11:45). I was about a mile from the river, but that mile was straight down--probably another 500-600 of elevation loss. My goal was to get to the river, but on this day, I would not achieve it.

Reluctantly I headed back up. The climb, which had seemed daunting that morning, was tough. But, you know, not that tough. I've had plenty of 5K days over the years. And the sheer size and scale and beauty and wonder kept me going and going. It kept me going when I, because I hadn't gotten down to the river, to filter ran out of water. It kept me going through the scorching midday sun.

And here's the surprise: I had had a bit of wayfinding issues on the way down and picked my way down that first drop pretty carefully. So in the end, it took exactly the same amount of time to go down the Grand Canyon as it did to go back up it again. I crested the rim an hour before the forecast said snow would hit.

I met my friends and we went out for a celebratory meal. When we woke up the next day, a layer of snow brought out even more of the Canyon's beauty.

The next couple of days, we explored the rim and filled our hearts with the enormity of the canyon. We went down the Kaibab trail for a few miles, and I realized that had I taken that smooth, well-graded and well-maintained trail, I would have easily made it to the river and back. Still, I wouldn't trade my soaked-in-solitude and adventure for anything.

60 Summits #47: Mount Wrightson

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Wed, 07 Feb 2024 06:12:00 +0000

I've been training with Yassine Diboun and Willie McBride's Wy'east Wolfpack since I ran my first marathon in 2015. In fact, I credit Yassine constantly singing the praises of trail over road for turning me into the runner I am today.

So when they put out an email announcing a runners' retreat in the Santa Rita Mountains south of Tucson, I jumped at the chance to spend a few days in my favorite biome (the desert) with some really great people.

My longtime friend Christine (who I hiked a 100 miles through the Alps with last summer) said she'd be my cabin mate, so I was overjoyed! And when the ice storm hit Portland a couple of weeks before the planned trip, all I could think about was being in sunny, warm Arizona.

So why was my first thought upon arriving at the rustic-but-comfortable Santa Rita Lodge How soon can I climb that snow-covered mountain over there?

Christine met up at the airport on Thursday morning, had breakfast and did some light thrifting in Phoenix before driving up to the Lodge. We got there too late for anything other than a quick peek around before the sun set, but the high desert surroundings looked perfect for trail running. Willie and Yassine, as expected were great hosts, preparing the 15 of us breakfast and dinner each day and helping us create connection.

On Friday, Christine and I set out on a little trail run on the least steep trail in the area, the Nature Trail, which threaded through the park, north to south. It was a nice warm-up, because the next day would be summit day.

I got up early and ate a quick breakfast. The crew that was planning to summit was pretty fast, so I knew I'd never keep up. I left about an hour earlier than everyone else. "You'll catch up to me," I told them. I was a little worried because I'd heard that a pretty strong hiker had turned back a few hundred feet below the summit because of conditions earlier that week. But Willie assured me that he'd summit even if he had to break trail the whole way.

The sun was bright in the sky when I headed out to begin the climb. It had been snowy up on the mountain the day before, and I hit the white stuff about a mile in, but it looked like others had been on the trail that day; I wouldn't need to break any trail myself. It was pretty meditative out there, just me, the sunshine, and the views.

About three quarters of the way up, I heard voices--the group had caught up to me! I looked forward to some camaraderie, but before I knew it, they had fully left me in the dust. I got it--the section we were in was cold. Shady and high up, the winds were biting and we needed to keep moving up a series of steep, overgrown switchbacks to stay warm.

When I emerged onto a saddle, I ran into a couple of other groups of hikers. As I put on my spikes and pulled my puffy out, I took in the incredible view and steeled myself for the final ascent. Looking up from the saddle, the view was foreboding. The summit was straight up from here.

I set out from the saddle following a couple of younger guys from Tucson. We chatted about this and that as we kept postholing into deep pockets in the snow. They seemed tired. I checked in to make sure they had food and water, but eventually sneaked past them, just as I got to what the Wolfpack took to calling "the sketchy part."

Now, the sketchy part was less than a quarter mile, but it was sketchy. It started with a straight uphill through the deep snow. Postholing meant that I kept needing to push myself out of the snow holes (did I mention I forgot my gloves in the cabin?). The transverse was no better--it was physically easier, but the packed snow at edges of the narrow path would occasionally calve off, making the path even narrower. I hotfooted it through there on the double, trying not to imagine what would happen if the whole thing went down.

But from then on, it was smooth sailing to the summit. I ran into the gang (they were on the way down) and Willie decided to go back up to the summit with me. Honestly I was super glad he did (turns out he was glad too--when they had been up there, a cloud rolled in, obscuring the view, but by the time I got to the top, it was clear enough to see mile and miles.

Willie loaned me a pole and we headed down together; he gave me some pointers for the sketchy areas and before I knew it, we were back to the saddle.

All in all, it was an amazing retreat; it really reawakened a desire for adventure that had been dormant since winter set in. I can't wait for my next escapade.

60 Summits #46: Hamilton Mountain #2

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Wed, 07 Feb 2024 05:12:00 +0000

Hamilton apparently exists to remind me that it's perfectly fine to hike in the snow.

My friend Michelle’s training plan called for a medium-length hike-run, so we settled on a day at Hamilton, thinking the loop would be no sweat. I threw my spikes into my running pack and drove out the Gorge.

I like to do the loop coming up Hardy Ridge and going down Hamilton. Hardy's rise is more gentle and the wide, friendly path is good for socializing and chatting. When we hit the snow about halfway up, it was heavy and wet, but the path was obvious and we kept on keeping on.

Soon we were at the saddle, looking across to the moody-looking summit (see above). Crossing the saddle is never not thrilling, with vertiginous drops on either side. Still, the trail was a piece of cake.

That is until we got across the saddle and started making our way to the summit. This area had a lot of vine maples, the drooping limbs of which were weighed down by snow. This created low tunnels we had to duck through, pushing branches out of the way. This went on for a quarter mile or so, tuckering us out. It wasn’t long before we came upon a downed tree that had obliterated the trail; we stood there for a while, puzzling how to pick it back up again. I was ready to turn around and head back down the way we came, summitless; but, happily, just then a hiker going the opposite way appeared and we were able to figure it out and get back on track.

We hit the summit but didn't stay--it was cold and viewless from the clouds--electing instead to skip down the mountain, our minds on post-hike meals.

60 Summits #45: Flag Mountain

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Wed, 07 Feb 2024 04:35:00 +0000

A toothed mushroom, but
not a hedgehog

Does a gentle hike to a little-known, 2,500-ft. mountain on the haunches of Mt. Hood count? Yeah, it does! Especially when you come home with enough hedgehog and chanterelle mushrooms to make a meal.

It was a moody December day and Sage and I couldn't figure out where to go for a hike. We combed All Trails, Hiking Project, and consulted all the Sullivan books, but couldn't agree on a destination. Then I noticed a little mountain hike on Oregon Hiker that we hadn't done before. Access was right off Hwy 26 for a 7-mile hike with a little more than 1K of gain. Perfect for a winter hiking experience.

We weren't expecting to find any mushrooms. It was pretty late in the season, but not long after we started the climb up to the long spine of Flag Mountain, we realized that there were still plenty of mushrooms around. Most weren't edible, of course, but we kept our eyes peeled and soon we started to spy hedgehogs here and there.

Bag of mushrooms,
handful of slime mold

Hedgehog mushrooms are fun to find because the underside of the cap contains not gills, but "teeth." They are also almost as delicious as chanterelles.

We messed around in the forest for awhile, passing the one decent view spot of Mt. Hood and continuing to forage. We reached the no-view summit and started down the other side. The weather, proximity to Hwy 26, and lack of views to recommend the trail meant that we had it to ourselves for the most part. We saw maybe two or three other folks the whole day.

Staying active in the winter if you're not into snow sports means that you learn to appreciate the less-obvious gifts of a day in the woods. There may have been no awe-inspiring views, but there was great conversation, the soft air and good smells of a misty forest, and a bounty of mushrooms for dinner.

60 Summits #44: Saddle Mountain

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Sat, 25 Nov 2023 06:40:00 +0000

Got a huge reward for skipping out on work on a Friday: The first ever time I hiked Saddle Mountain and actually saw anything from the summit.

I have hiked Saddle Mountain a couple of times in the past, but the notoriously foggy/cloudy conditions at the Oregon Coast have meant that the payoff for the short but robust climb has heretofore been underwhelming. The lack of a view combined with some very exposed hiking and some metal traction netting that becomes pretty slippery when wet put Saddle Mountain pretty far down the list of desirable hikes in Oregon for me.

And then the pandemic and needed trail and bridge repairs closed the Saddle Mountain trail for three years. Suddenly, because I couldn't hike it, I really wanted to hike it again.

I got my chance on clear, warm November Friday when I clocked out of work 5 minutes after clocking in and instead drove out hwy 26 and up the 7 miles from the highway to the trailhead. I got there early enough that there weren't too many cars.

It's a shade under three miles from the start to the summit, but those miles offer a pretty diverse set of terrain: lush forests, open ridges, the vertiginous saddle.

The path is steep--gaining 1,600 feet in those two and three quarters miles, but for the most part, the trail restoration did its job and created a pretty runnable experience. Buoyed by the views along the way and the warm November sun, I felt pretty great when I reached the top. The Cascades were all on view, as was the shoreline and the broad Pacific ocean. I paused to drink it all in before heading back down.

Why did I cut short my time at the top? Because I had a diabolical plan. I would double my fun by doing another loop. The runnable path made going down a pretty quick experience. I hit the parking lot, exchanged my glasses for contact lenses, and started up for a second time.

Show-offy? Yes! But I was really enjoying folks being completely consternated by seeing me going up after running into me going down. But I had only so much to prove, so when I got to the eponymous saddle, the transversing of which would have required losing a bunch of elevation before regaining it on the way to the summit, I decided I'd gotten my fill and headed back down for a second time.

Even with looping it, the Saddle Mountain experience left enough time for me to head to the coast after the hike, for a walk along Cannon Beach and a celebratory ice cream cone before heading back to Portland.

60 Summits #43: South Sister

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Sat, 14 Oct 2023 06:13:00 +0000

Three days after this adventure, my quads were still so sore it was difficult to navigate going down stairs. The soreness snuck up on me and I realized it was because I hadn't gone adventure running for almost two months. Sure, I reached a bunch of summits in Europe and in Albuquerque, but those had definitively been hikes. In Europe, I was carrying a 25 pound pack with all my belongings, so I wasn't running.

South Sister was a different story.

When I saw that the temperatures over the weekend would be near 80, I knew I had to reach a summit and began planning. South Sister would require a permit and an overnight stay in Bend the night before, but with winter on the horizon, I wanted to get it in and I was so glad I did. After getting up early on Friday to snag a permit (they sold out in 15 minutes), I booked the cheapest hotel in Bend.

I headed down on Saturday afternoon. Google told me I was less than 600 feet from a taco truck with a 4.9 rating, so I marched over to check them out, then drove downtown to walk around with all the other tourists. A big scoop of ultra-fancy ice cream later and I was headed back to the motel to get some sleep.

It's only a 30-minute drive from Bend to the trailhead for South Sister. I was a bit worried that the parking lot would be full, so I left at just after 6 a.m. The sun rose behind me as I drove along the flank of Mt. Bachelor. A heavy mist rose from the surface of Devil's Lake, making for a moody feeling in the dim morning light.

I set off at around 7 a.m. The first couple of miles were mellow, rising through a shady forest on a smooth and easy path. After that, the terrain gets steeper and the trees go away, so bring sunscreen or a hat. I was still peppy and feeling great as I passed Moraine Lake, a beautiful blue lake framed by Broken Top a South Sister.

Speaking of South Sister, the distinctive red top of the mountain came into view once we left the trees behind and it kept being tantalizingly far away.

The well-defined path gradually gave way to a confusing tangle of scree paths through the rocks that gets steeper and steeper until you reach the first false summit. Once you're to the top of that, you can look down on two vibrantly blue-green lakes on the other side. You'll take a narrow causeway across to another steep ascent, this time in ankle-deep brick-red scree that slides beneath your feel. The trail goes between two glaciers, so you get an up-close view. The temperature up here was cold and I paused to put on my heavy jacket and gloves. The wind began to kick up in earnest

By the time I got to the second false summit (actually the rim of the caldera atop South Sister) I was starting to flag, but it was nice to go down into the caldera because down here the wind grew calmer. That was short-lasted however. Climbing up the other side of the rim to the summit brought a howling wind. But the climb was short, and soon I was standing atop the third highest mountain in Oregon. Middle Sister and North Sister were just ahead. It was exhilarating to be on the top of a mountain again. I crawled onto a little ledge that was out of the wind and had a snack.

Going down was a slip-slidey affair. I fell on my bum twice where the scree was deepest, but started flying down once I hit the less-steep section, alternating running and walking for awhile.

I decided to take the path to Moraine Lake. I didn't have the heart to lose another 250 feet of elevation that I'd have to gain back, so I didn't go all the way to the shore. Instead, I sat on a bluff above the lake, soaking in the warm October sunshine and agog at the views.

I felt pretty lazy at the lake, but soon motivated myself to get going again--after all, when I reached bottom, there would be a 4 hour drive back to Portland ahead of me!

60 Summits #42: Sandia Crest

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Wed, 11 Oct 2023 19:10:00 +0000

I'm very fond of the desert. Lucky for me, there was a conference for my work being held in Albuquerque. And while I hated the idea of going to a conference, I decided I'd take advantage of the corporate-funded airline ticket and head to New Mexico a couple of days early to see what kind of trouble I could get up to.

A couple of co-workers decided to join me for the pre-gaming, and graciously agreed to a hike in the Sandias, a range of mountains that butted up against the East side of Albuquerque.

After wrangling around a bit about trails (I wanted to take the La Luz trail, 15 miles out-and-back and guaranteed to summit the Sandia Crest), we decided on the Pino trail, which lay a bit south of the top, but I knew it would be fun to hang with other people for this hike.

We arrived on a Saturday morning that was brilliantly clear. As we sauntered through the gradual climb of the first mile or so, I was marvelling at all the amazing desert plants, like tall chollo cacti and squat prickly pear, adorned with fruit that looked almost ready to harvest. The trail wound around cool rock formations.

Soon however, we started to climb in earnest. As we rose in elevation, the views got better. One of us, however, was struggling with an injury and decided to turn back. After conferring, we decided that instead of doing an out-and-back, the two of us remaining would hike the Pino until it intersected with the Sandia Crest trail and take Sandia Crest to the tram, where our friend would tram up to meet us.

With a plan in mind (and me secretly overjoyed knowing that I would hit the summit after all), we pressed on. The trail began to get more challenging, overgrown in some spots, steep and rocky in others. But we persevered as the day started to warm up.

Finally we reached the trail junction and thought, hey, the climbing is over. This was not the case. Yes, it wasn't as steep as the Pino Trail, but there was still elevation to contend with.

The crazy thing was, now that we were on top of the ridge, the landscape changed to forest. Surrounded by Ponderosa pine, oak, Oregon grape (!), and spruce I felt right at home.

The shade those trees provided was certainly welcome. By this time we were well above 8,000 feet and us lowlanders were beginning to feel the effects of the altitude and the heat. We stopped several times to drink water, eat snacks, and admire the views on both sides of the crest.

Just when we were at our lowest ebb, we looked up one last steep hill to see the tram station. Happily we climbed up and met our friend joyfully. Although we were bedraggled from the hike, we decided to stop in to the fancy pub at the top of the mountain for some queso fries and Cokes.

A giddy 20-minute ride down in the Tram and an afternoon of thrifting rounded out a perfect Albuquerque Day.

60 Summits #37-41: Tour du Mont Blanc

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Tue, 12 Sep 2023 06:20:00 +0000

As expected, the Tour du Mont Blanc was truly the trip of a lifetime. 12 straight days of hiking 8 - 12 miles up mountain passes and down into valleys. Even the "hardships" (rain, long days) seemed sweet. My heart was filled with the beauty of these mountains every single day.

I captured 5 more summits for my collection, too.

Tete de la Tronche

Le Brévent

Tête de la Bellachat

Aiguillette de Posettes

Fenêtre d’Arpette

Day 1: Champex Lac to Ferret, Switzerland. Eased into our first day with a downhill hike past the beautiful alpine lake and into the forest. Whimsical carvings of squirrels, wild boar, and mushrooms kept us company. We passed through some cute small towns and then climbed back up through a forest alongside a river and soon reached the small town of La Fouly where we stopped for groceries. Got a little lost after that but eventually got to our refuge Hotel Col du Fenêtre. 11 miles; 2300 feet of gain.

Day 2: Ferret to Rifugio Walter Bonatti. With one day of hiking under our belt, we were ready for a bigger challenge. This day started with a steady climb through cow pastures and stinging nettles to the Grand Col Ferret, which forms a border with Italy. At the Col we got our first taste of the incredible views we’d be treated to for the rest of the tour. You could see both the valley we had left and the valley we were entering as well as our first front-row view of the mountain range. We rested at the top of the Col before a gruelingly steep downhill to the valley floor and an almost immediate return to uphill as we climbed to our Refugio Bonatti for the evening. We arrived with just a few moments to spare before dinner was served. 12 miles, 3900 feet of gain

Day 3: Refugio Walter Bonatti to Refugio Monte Bianco via Tête de la Tronche (Alt). Phil and I Took the high road to Courmayeur, rising through a pass and then dropping into a cow pasture and rising again to the base of the real climb to the summit of Tête de la Tronche. Ultrarunners must love this alternate route because so many of them passed us along the way.

The summit of Tête de la Tronche was flat and grassy but unfortunately too buggy to stay too long to enjoy the view. We dropped down and meandered along the flank of the mountain before meeting up with the TMB again. After that it was a long downward slog into Courmayeur, where I did some laundry and we caught a bus to Refugio Monte Bianco, which had a dramatic view of the glacier across the way. We could hear avalanches throughout the evening as parts of the glacier calved off. 15.3K, 2800 feet of gain

Day 4: Refugio Monte Bianco to Cabane du Combal. A rough uphill start to the day as we climbed up from Refugio Monte Bianco to join the TMB again. Once on it, the climbing continued, but with an ever-changing view of the Mont Blanc massif to keep us company. We reached an exposed balcon and drifted downward again to stay in our favorite refuge so far: Cabane du Combal. We enjoyed a private room with its own bathroom and shower. I took a little detour before dinner and hiked to the gorgeous Lac Combal, then climbed up the moraine alongside the Glacier du Miage but chickened out before I touched a glacier. 11K, 2500 feet of gain

Day 5: Cabane du Combal to Les Mottets. We said goodbye to Italy and hiked into Franche on a short rainy journey to Les Mottets. It felt like a lot of elevation gain as we climbed to another Col (Col de la Seigne) and descended steeply to arrive at the refuge early enough to drink hot cocoa, eat a piece of the cake of the day, and play Scrabble. Phil and I walked down to the very rustic cheese factory and bought a slab to enjoy before dinner. 7 miles; 1900 feet of gain

Day 6: Les Mottets to Refuge de la Balme . Another long day. We had thought we would do the “shortcut,” a steep alternative that made up in elevation gain and loose terrain what it lost in mileage, but poor weather meant that we decided to take the longer, more prudent route. We headed down the road toward the tiny town of Les Chapieux at the Southern tip of the TMB, where we stocked up on gummies and another amazing cheese, this one an aged chèvre. Then the climbing began—a relentless rise to the Col du Bonhomme in intermittent showers.

As I reached the Col, the sun was breaking through and since I was about a half hour ahead of the group, I decided to try for the Tête de la Fours, the highest point on the tour along with the Fenetre d'Arpette (more on that later). I turned off the TMB and started climbing again, but within minutes, a cloud engulfed me. I headed to the Col de Fours for a look into the valley I’d started the day in, but decided that the Tête was not in my future. By this time the visibility was zero. I chatted with a couple French guys who were heading down to Motets and had to follow my gps watch track and the holes my poles made to find my way back to the main TMB, where I shortly caught up with the gang.

That cloud followed us all the way down, limiting visibility and spitting rain. The path was no walk in the park, including some brief scrambles over rushing waters, and it was steep and rocky and non-runnable all the way down. My hands soon were numb from the cold so I just kept hustling.

Eventually we arrived at Refuge de la Balme, which was a primitive refuge where backpacks and shoes had to be stored outside under the eaves, which because of the rain, meant putting my feet into squelching wet shoes the next morning. Best dinner of the tour so far however: mushroom soup, eggplant lasagne, salted chocolate tart (!) 12 miles; 4219 feet of ascent

Day 7: Refuge de la Balme to Refuge Miage. We began a long descent, partially through the Montjoie nature park. It was more like a pleasant walk than a true hike, which was a good thing as it was still drizzling and overcast. Eventually we reached the little town of Les Contaminés and headed to a bistro for burgers and fries (Not very French, but it was the only thing open and the food did warm us up!) It was good to get a taste of civilization because in the afternoon, we headed back up through a lovely forest to farm country on another TMB variant for a very rural stay at Refuge Miage, where the electricity was provided by solar and when lights were out at 9, they were really out. I’m sure it was one of the more beautiful refuges, but we could see nothing beyond what was 10 feet away from our faces due to the fog and rain. Everything is wet. 9.5 miles, 2100 feet of gain

Day 8: Refuge Miage to Les Houches. Because we had chosen the variant, today started with a long hard hike up to the Col de Voza. I was almost grateful for the fog because it shrouded our view of the top and we couldn’t be disheartened by how long we had to climb. Reaching the top, the clouds broke up a tiny bit and we saw the valley below us. A long downhill led into les houches, where we found our gite was right next to a boulangerie. It was great to get a hot shower and to cheer as we watched racers from a satellite UTMB race come through the town. 8 miles, 2300 feet of gain

Day 9: Les Houche to La Flégère. The longest day yet. After stocking up on sandwiches and pastries at the bakery next to our gite, we got an early start and immediately began climbing through the forest to the first of two summits. The rain had cleared up and now the mountains across the way began to play peekaboo with the clouds, revealing parts of themselves at some times, hiding themselves at others.

Still, it was pretty chilly when we reached the Refuge Bellachat just under the summit of Tête de la Bellachat. We were hoping for hot soup, but they had just run out, so we fortified ourselves with coffee instead and hit the top of Bellachat.

The way to the second summit, Brevent, was wild and rocky and shrouded with fog. After summiting and checking out the partially clouded view, we came upon the first of what would be many steel ladders pounded into the stone. Because we did the TMB clockwise (most do this trek counterclockwise), we used the ladders to descend--arguably a little scarier than climbing them. Soon after, we came to the Col du Brevent and popped out above the Chamonix valley across from Mont Blanc. A long transverse in the late afternoon sun was delightful as the mountains peeled in and out from the clouds. Finally reached Refuge La Flégère for a rich and richly deserved dinner of potatoes in cheese and cream and Tarte tatin; 12.5 miles; 5,502 feet of gain

Day 10: After the previous day’s 5000 feet exertion, today we had an “off” day that featured a short hike up to a beautiful blue-green alpine lake, Lac Blanc. We hung out in the sun all day relaxing except for a brief jaunt up to a more secluded lake, Lac Perseverance. The refuge had delicious food and the smallest room yet--all four of us could not be in the room at one time unless we were all in our bunk beds.

Day 11: Lac Blanc to Refuge le Peuty. Our rest day left us energized for our hike to the next Col. It started with an aggressive downhill; we needed to navigate several sections of steel ladders plus railings and ropes pounded into the rocks to help us get down safely. Because we were going clockwise while others were going counterclockwise, it was a bit of a dance to make sure two people going opposite directions weren’t trying to use the ladders at the same time. It was definitely an adrenaline rush, especially looking straight down into the Chamonix valley from your perch on a ladder.

As we’ve found out time and time again during this trek, what goes down must go back up again. As soon as we hit the little town of Tre la Champ at the bottom of the valley, we started our ascent back up toward the Col de Balme. After cresting the forest, we continued a hard, exposed climb toward the summit of Aiguillette de Posettes. While struggling my way up, I happened to look down at the vegetation--and realized I was standing in a sea of ripe berries. They looked just like huckleberries, but apparently were bilberries, a European wild blueberry. Whatever they were, they provided the tailwind I needed; I picked and ate handfuls as I hiked along, staining my hands, lips, and teeth purple.

At the summit we rested; we’d already climbed 3400 feet. But the summit wasn’t our destination, and sadly

we had another Col to climb to. We dropped down and then rose back up to the Col de Balme, the border between Switzerland and France. After asnack at the historic Refuge du Col de Balme, we hiked down through the forest to le Peuty. After all the ladders, summiting, and general hiking, this last hike, all steeply downhill, seemed very long indeed. But we arrived at our Refuge. This one was the most entertaining refuge yet: it had the vibe of a 1990s-era Green Tortoise bus--just a very hippie aesthetic. But the food was great--a hearty curry for dinner and lots of options for breakfast beyond the standard bread, butter and jam offered at most of the other refuges.

We hung out and drank a beer with two brothers from Montana who had come to Europe to run an alpine marathon and decided to do the Tour du Mont Blanc as a side quest (!). They had taken the variant over the Col du Fenetre Arpette and looked kind of worse for the wear. I should have clocked that, but… 13 miles, 3400 feet of gain.

Day 12: Le Peuty to Champex Lac, via Fenêtre d’Arpette. Phil and I had planned to do “the hardest hike on the TMB,” a variant that went over Fenêtre d'Arpette rather than the (honestly not that much easier) route. But Phil woke up feeling sick and I had a decision to make. Yes, the look in the eyes of everyone at the refuge who had taken the Fenetre the day before could best be described as haunted, but how could I pass up the highest point on the tour reached by the hardest hike? I couldn’t. And so I set out.

For a while, I glommed on to a pair of newlywed Harvard grads who were honeymooning, but they soon peeled off ahead of me. That was okay. I just needed to keep going steadily. The climb was quite brutal, though forest on a pretty rough and steep path, and then on a rocky, scree-filled path that took me closer and closer to the Glacier de Trient. I was stunned by the dramatic views of the glacier. I needed to stop and rest at one point and the path was so steep I had to wedge myself between two rocks to stabilize.

Finally I reached the top. There were lots of folks in the narrow pass, celebrating their victory.

But from my perspective, it was too soon to celebrate--going down would prove to be almost as taxing as going up. The way down was first through an extremely pitched scree field. I had visions of myself falling on my butt and just sliding all the way down the mountain. That didn’t happen of course and in due time, I reached the boulder field--a mile or so of boulders to climb over, navigate around, and just generally contend with. I kept thinking I was down already, but this trail had the opposite of false summits; there were false floors. While I was hanging out on top of a boulder, eating trail mix, I met a young guy from South America going the opposite direction. “Is there water up there?” he asked. There wasn’t, and the sun was merciless, so I gave him the contents of one of my water bottles, thinking I’d only be out there for a short while. Nope! I was only about a third of the way down when that occurred. 12 miles, 4400 feet of gain.

Eventually, I did get back to civilization, first stopping at a Refuge for my afternoon Coke and cake, and then walking into Champex Lac, where the whole thing had started for us 12 days earlier. I was happy to be done with that day’s hike, but a little sad that this adventure was over.

60 Summits #35 and #36: Red Mountain Lookout and Berry Mountain

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Mon, 14 Aug 2023 02:15:00 +0000

As I write this, it's less than a week before I leave for a two-week trip to hike the Trail du Mont Blanc. It's the trip of my lifetime and I am incredibly grateful to be able to do it--physically, financially.

One thing I'm not worried about is my ability to hike for 12 days straight with a laden backpack. Maybe I should be more nervous, but hiking up summits for most of the summer has made me feel like I'll be able to handle the Alps--at a leisurely pace, of course.

Still, I wanted to get in one more summit before I climbed onto a plane. I hadn't been able to get out for the last two weeks--first because I was doing the absolute greatest volunteer event on the planet and then the following weekend because I was performing the death-defying stunt of teaching someone special to me how to drive a stick shift.

My first idea was Mt. Margaret, a summit in the shadow of St. Helens. I love that area so much and it looked to be a reasonable hike from a paved road. The downside: A road closed due to landslides meant I'd have to take an alternate route that put the trailhead three hours of driving away. I would have braved the ride if I was doing it with someone else, but I couldn't get buy-in for that level of adventuring.

So I took to the Washington Trail Association website to search out some closer-to-home summits. I settled on a two-fer in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest.

Gifford Pinchot is about an hour away (although the trailhead I used was down a long stretch of one-lane road that faded to dirt about three miles before I hit the parking lot. I passed a "Road not maintained" sign with an x-ed out pictogram of a passenger car about a half mile from my destination, but I pressed on and finally made it).

I've been to GP a few times--it was the first ever place I backpacked and the easy hiking and copious huckleberries hooked me on it. My perception of it was that there were no mountains in it, but as it turns out I was wrong.

My plan was to take the Indian Racetrack trail to the Red Mountain Lookout, then cut over to the Pacific Crest Trail to tag the summit of Berry Mountain.

Indian Racetrack is so named because the Yakima, Klickitat, and Columbia River tribes gathered there at summer's end to harvest berries and race ponies. The trail travels through cool, quiet second-growth forest, passing by a lilypad-strewn pond and ending in the meadow where the races took place. Go straight and you start a climb to the lookout Tower. Go left and you cross over to the PCT.

I started climbing/jogging up. After a summer of tough final climbs to summits, this was kind of a breeze? At the top, it was perfectly clear and I clocked all the mountains from Ranier to Jefferson with a front-row seat on Adams. For the cherry on top, I climbed the rickety stairs to the lookout itself and drank in the view.

After helping a nice couple identify the mountains, I headed back down and over to the PCT. I was making great time--the elevation gain here was gentle and the trails were soft and runnable. Once on the PCT, I headed for Berry Mountain--and that's where I started losing time.

The huckleberries were OUT and I decided I needed to gather them. The problem is that picking huckeberries is an extremely time consuming task. First of all, they are tiny. Secondly, with blueberries, you can grab a stem and pop five or six off at one time. Huckleberries produce one berry per stem.

Eventually, I pushed on. The summit would be a scramble, I knew, but with my app and a hard copy of a map, I knew I'd be fine. I'd read some reports that the view from the top was very nice.

That turned out not to be true. After scrambling up a couple of non-paths, my app told me I was on the summit, but there was definitely no view--just trees all around and dense brush. I was disappointed, but i couldn't be too sad--I'd already had an amazing view and I was heading back with enough huckleberries to top bowls of ice cream all week.

It's fitting that my final adventure before heading halfway around the world showed off the very best of what we enjoy in our own Pacific Northwest backyard.

60 Summits #33 and #34: Tomlike and Chinidere

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Thu, 27 Jul 2023 05:53:00 +0000

In 2020, I was training to run a 50-mile race. Of course it was cancelled, but since there wasn't much of anything else to do, I kept on training.

One of the most memorable runs was a 31-mile loop that started in Cascade Locks, traveled up the Pacific Crest Trail to Wahtum Lake and back down via the Herman Creek trail.

I have been daydreaming about doing that run again, so when I happened to see a Strava friend post that same loop with a summit add-on, I got to researching.

Turned out there were two summits available on that loop!

I decided that I wasn't feeling quite up to a 30+ mile day, so instead of the loop, I planned to make it an out-and-back up the Herman Creek trail for like 22-23 miles or so with about 5400 feet of gain.

The weather was perfect when I set out, cool and clear. I have been feeling so grateful this summer that Portland has not been grappling with the heat and smoke that have affected other parts of the country.

I've spent a fair amount of time on Herman Creek; the Nick Eaton to Indian Point loop is a favorite for just punishing elevation gain followed by stellar Gorge views. The path's namesake runs below you, and as you travel south, the sound of the creek below you keeps you company. Every couple of miles, there's a tributary creek to cross, some with pretty waterfalls.

About an hour in, I caught my first glimpse of Tomlike, a double-humped mountain visible in the distance. "Seems like a long way," I thought to myself.

Besides all of the creeks on this trail, its other distinguishing feature is that it travels through the area burned in the 2017 Eagle Creek fire. Travelling through the burned areas of these forests is always a fascinating experience, one where you weep for the destruction while at the same time marvelling at the resilience of the forest, which gradually heals itself.

By the time I reached the back of the canyon and crossed Herman Creek to begin switchbacking up a ridge, I realized I was pretty tired. I was worried about the Tomlike trail, since it was a user trail and not on the hiking app I was using. "Maybe I'll just do Chinidere," I thought. I was nervous about missing the turnoff to it since it was unsigned.

I needn't have worried. When I got to the junction for the Tomlike trail, it was quite apparent. I followed it into a grove of short trees and within a quarter mile emerged on a rocky ridge with an amazing view of Mt. Adams and the valley below. The trail was not faint at all and I kept following it. I lost a little hope when I caught sight of the summit. It really did seem far away and at a much higher altitude than where I current was (and I'd already ran 11 miles and gained quite a bit of elevation.

But I pressed on. Soon I came to a giant scree pile. I put my hand to my forehead to shade my eyes and looked up. At the top was a tiny cairn. Oh, ok, I guess I'm climbing that. It too had a false summit, so when I hauled myself to the top of that pile, I noticed there was still more pile to climb.

One more patch of scrubby forest and suddenly I was at the base of the last climb. The exposed summit had a nice path carved into the low scrub and it I danced on up to the top, across a dramatic spine, and up to the true summit. Honestly, this was the first summit I've done this year where looking at it made it seem harder to reach than it actually was.

As you can see from the top picture, there was an incredible view of Mt. Hood from the summit on this blue-sky day. Adams, Rainier, St. Helens were all on view as well.

Regretfully, I turned away and headed back down the trail. I still had another summit to hit. On my way down, I finally saw another person, the first I'd seen all day (!), another solo female hiker out to bag the Tomlike summit.

Chinidere is a hop, skip, and a jump away from Tomlike -- the Chinidere trailhead barely a mile from where the Tomlike trail meets the Herman Creek trail. The Chinidere hike was shorter--only a half mile to the summit from the trailhead, but felt a lot steeper. Again, I had the top of the mountain all to myself--except a butterfly and a wasp who were both obsessed by my shoe. I snacked for a bit, but didn't want that wasp to get any ideas, so I didn't spend long here.

If you're choosing only one summit, honestly Tomlike is the one to choose, even though Chinidere is 300 feet higher. Somehow that hike to Tomlike just made hitting the summit seem more magical than Chinidere. But they both had pretty incredible views.

I am embarrassed to say, this was a very long day. I stopped on the way back to filter water, but mostly I just kept moving at a pretty slow pace. All in all, I went probably 23 miles in like 10 hours, which, if you're keeping track, means my average mile pace was almost 30 minutes. Hard to think of yourself as a trail runner with those kinds of numbers. Still, I was happy to bag a couple of summits in a day! And I still want to do the full loop again.

Baby's First 100K

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Tue, 18 Jul 2023 06:35:00 +0000

Once upon a time, there was a young woman who lived in San Francisco. She wasn't in great shape, but she liked riding her bike every so often.

A co-worker egged her on to sign up for the Cinderella Classic, a 65-mile women-only bike ride through the East Bay Hills, so she did.

It was pretty hard for this girl, who wasn't all that used to sustained physical activity. When her chain dropped at mile 50 or so, she let the sag wagon bring her in.

Ever since that day, that girl thought about that ride. She knew in her heart that the chain issue was probably and easy fix and she wondered if she'd have been able to finish the ride. That girl has never ridden more than 45 miles in a day since then.

Until now.

After the Gorge Ride a couple of weeks ago, I was hyped up on bicycling. So when an email about the Hood and Back Ride, an 80-mile ride from the Edgefield in Troutdale to the McNeil Campground on Mt. Hood, I started scheming.

Unfortunately, I schemed indecisively. After trying fruitlessly to enlist buddies in this quixotic quest, I went to bed the night before still undecided about whether I wanted to do this. In the end, though, like always I decided to say yes to fun.

I got to the start around 9, a couple hours after most sane folks headed out (which had a bearing on what transpired later). After checking in and paying feels, I was soon rolling through the countryside between Troutdale and Sandy. The hills were rolling, so that you just needed to build up a head of steam on the downhill and it propelled you up the next hill.

Just before the first Aid Station at Dodge Park, there was a pretty steep downhill section. Wheee, said my heart. Uh-oh said my brain, knowing I'd have to climb back out of there on the final stretch.

I met lots of nice people at the Aid Station. A lot of them were not worried about the hills. "I'll just use my button," they said. I wondered if that was bike-speak for like pushing past the wall or something. Finally I asked someone, "hey, what do you mean by your 'button.'" Turned out it was to turn on their PEDAL ASSIST. Now I was sad I didn't have a button.

After that, it was climbing for me. We rolled past llama farms and Mt. Hood vistas. Cool forests and open fields. A nice local pulled up alongside me on his bike and kept me company for a particularly gnarly uphill, talking of biking and why his son is better off at a Christian university than a public one (hint: no vaccinations). I took a break to let him get ahead at that point.

Just when I was losing heart and the sun was heating up, here came Aid Station 2. Now, from the beginning, knowing I was not fast and that I didn't have a button, so I needed to save my energy to get all the way back to the Edgefield. I thought I would turn around at Aid Station #2. But I was already at 27 miles, and I saw my chance to redeem myself by going at least 100 K (62 miles). So I turned left after the Aid Station and kept climbing. This climb was gradual and the air was cool. It was altogether very pleasant.

At about mile 33, I turned around. I had set a firm time limit for myself, and didn't want to exceed it. No, I didn't make it all the way to the campground -- my turnaround spot cut about 12 miles off of the ride -- but I am at peace with my decision.

The ride back was not without it's challenges. By this time, the temperature had climbed into the high 80s-low 90s. While it was certainly a net downhill to get back, there were still a few very significant uphills. I needed to rest in the shade a few times as I climbed.

Eventually I made it back to Aid Station 1, where a group of 8-10 people were hanging out on folding chairs. I got some snacks and joined them. But not for long. These were folks who were taking the sag wagon back. The Aid Station guys were like, "are you sure you can make it? Do you have enough water?" It was then that I realized that while I wasn't really bike trained, my endurance was strong and I was pretty heat adapted. "Of course I'm going to make it," I said, "I just have to climb out of this hole," That, of course was easier said than done. That particular uphill seemed to go on forEVER. And if it had been exposed, I don't know if I would have been able to ride up it. But it wasn't, so I was.

I rolled back into the Edgefield at about 4:30, exhausted and overheated. A convenient misting booth solved both problems.

60 Summits #32: (Not) Zigzag

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Mon, 10 Jul 2023 06:17:00 +0000

My toxic trait? It's definitely got to be going off half-cocked.

For me, this means that I get a notion and bam! I'm out the door without proper planning. Or, even more likely, I think I remember things about a run but don't double check anything.

The latter is what happened for this run. I've had a handful of run on the West Zigzag trail and was pretty sure I'd been on the summit, so I headed out, ready to bag it again.

In my mind, I thought it was about 12 miles round, so I planned accordingly.

Ha! The joke was on me. As I huffed my way up the switchbacks that make up the first 5 miles of the hike, I realized that, oh yeah, this isn't a 12 mile hike at all. But once those sweet views of Hood to one side and the Sandy River Valley on the other side kick in, I felt a little better about pushing forward and just after that, I reached the summit of West Zigzag, the first of several summits available along that ridge.

I pushed on along the somewhat flat ridgeline (a nice change from the 3500 feet of climbing that starts the hike). It was fine, but pretty overgrown, so it felt like a bushwack even though I was on an established trail.

I checked my hiking project app a few times, and started to realize that the summit of Zigzag wasn't where I thought it was. After another amazing glimpse at Hood, I arrived at what I used to think was the summit, but now know is just "Point 4877"). I started to go past it, toward the real Zigzag summit, but the trail started to drop alarmingly. I was already 8 miles in and not ready to commit to a 20-mile hike that day with only a liter of water. So I headed back and snacked on the false summit. Honestly can recommend--there were views of Hood, Jefferson, Adams, and St. Helens.

Ran out of water by the time I got back to the switchbacks, but since they were downhill anyways, it was all good.

60 Summits #31: Mount Gladys

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Fri, 07 Jul 2023 07:05:00 +0000

It wasn't that long ago when I believed that if I stepped even a foot off of an established trail, I would immediately become lost and perish in the wilderness. (Which, considering my lack of directional sense .....)

I am a little more confident now, thanks to some of the adventures this project has taken me on. But to get to the top of Mt. Gladys, well, I needed the help of someone with the skills and sense of adventure to wayfind a path.

Sarah, a new friend, and I had backpacked to Flapjack Lakes with Dr. Anna, who I met through work, and Darren, a journalist and birder. Together, we were D.A.M.S., our camaraderie forged through hauling our carcasses up 3,100 feet of gain in 8 miles while toting full backpacks.

The lakes, when we finally reached them, were stupidly beautiful; crystal-clear, deep blue twin lakes with craggy peaks reflected in the placid water.

The next day, the four of us grabbed day packs and headed up to Gladys Divide. The short 1.5 mile trail was steep and varied, serving up wildflowers, charming creeks, and snow fields to tramp through.

When we reached the Divide, the view was stunning. Sitting among the rocky scree, we had a commanding view of the Sawtooth Ridge and the Mount Skokomish Wilderness.

After a brief rest, Anna and Darren decided to head back to the lakes, while Sarah and I pressed on to the summit, another mile above us.

Here's the issue: The trail to the summit of Gladys definitely existed, but it wasn't on the maps or apps I consulted. And parts of it were covered in snow. That snow was rapidly melting, creating streams that ran under snowfields, meaning that we needed to carefully find our line, choosing snow transverses that were stable and bushwacking around the ones that weren't.

But Sarah was on it. She had a great combination of experience, knowledge, and curiosity that helped us find the right path. Soon we were standing on the summit, absolutely stunned by the views of mountain peaks near and far.

Summits are great alone, but they are even better with with friends old and new.

60 Summits #30: Rowena Crest

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Mon, 26 Jun 2023 03:46:00 +0000

"Now normally I'm a gum-chewer, but when I heard about these ticket things of Wonka's, I laid off the gum and switched to candy bars instead." -- Violet Beauregard.

If you switch out the words "gum-chewer" and "candy bars" for "running" and "bicycling," Violet's sentiments perfectly match my own.

Yeah, I'm mostly a runner, but I do enjoy a biking moment. Earlier this year, I upgraded my bike and the difference from my old one is substantial. Now that there is more daylight to play with and much less rain, I've been riding my bike to the start of group runs and just generally looking for reasons to get in the saddle.

So when I saw an ad for the Gorge Ride, a fundraising ride for the Friends of the Historic Columbia River Highway, I immediately got buy-in from my bike friend Jean and signed us up. An out-and-back that goes from The Dalles to Hood River, the ride offers 39 miles of blissful scenery with about 2500 feet of gain.

The course was open from 7 a.m. until 4 p.m., but we knew we wanted to get a kind of early start. We arrived in The Dalles at 8, got checked in by the first phalanx of amazing volunteers, and got rolling.

The first stretch was through the rural-ish suburbs of The Dalles; we pedaled past low-slung '70s era apartment buildings on one side of the road and awe-inspiring rocky bluffs looking like something out of a John Wayne film on the other. We soon left the Dalles behind and started a gradual climb to Rowena Crest.

The propaganda that the Gorge Ride put out notes that none of the grades on the ride are over 5 percent, so the ride should be do-able by all. And the truth is, it was eminently do-able. I kicked it down to almost granny gear and dug in, pedaling up those famous curves that have graced a million Oregon-themed calendars. I passed a few people, a few people passed me, and it wasn't too long before we were at the top and soaking in the view.

After catching our breath, we slid out of Rowena and down into the agricultural valley between Rowena and Mosier. The road had long, undulating hills, so it wasn't quite as heart-stoppingly downhill as I'd feared. We turned into the first aid station and one of the main differences between running and biking for me became immediately apparent.

The week before, when I was running up Mount Ashland, I couldn't even work up the appetite for a slice of watermelon at an aid station, instead just fueling on Gu and grit. But when you bike, your belly doesn't get jostled around, so when I was presented with the endless buffet of cherries, watermelon, fancy nut butter, peanut butter pretzels, and the like, I dug in alongside the other riders. I had been trying to figure out where to stop in Hood River after the ride to buy some local cherries (my summer obsession), so I was thrilled to see them on the aid station table. "Where did you get these cherries?" I asked the volunteer. He gave me a funny look. "Oh just over there," he waved vaguely.

Leaving the aid station, I realized why he was puzzled. We immediately began rolling past acres and acres of cherry trees, their branches heavy with fruit. I was mesmerized. I had been on those roads before on foot, training for my first an only road marathon, which went from Hood River to Rowena Crest and back, but it was in the fall, and I hadn't clocked that the orchards I was running past were cherry orchards. Presently we went by a sign that said, "U-Pick Cherries." Oh, we're gonna stop there on the way back, I resolved.

We rolled through the tiny town of Mosier and began a pretty nasty climb to the historic Mosier Twin Tunnels. From my marathon days, I was ready for it, knowing that it was both steeper and longer than the climb to Rowena. And the climbing doesn't end after you pass the tunnels, either. There is more elevation to come.

Jean was the first to notice how different the woods felt up here. We'd left the Ponderosa pines behind and now we were in Douglas fir and big leaf maple country. It was amazing to be able to self-propel through so many different biomes, from the arid semi-desert of Eastern Oregon to the forest of Western Oregon. We peddled by a trickling stream and delighted in the shade that the forest provided.

At the turnaround point, we had another giant snack and mingled with the other riders. In terms of age, we fit right in--this wasn't for the most part, a young crowd. We checked out all the biking jerseys and eavesdropped on conversations about gear and RAGBRAI.

When we were thoroughly full and rested, we hopped back on the bikes for our return trip. It was then I noticed another difference between the ultra and bicycling communities. Overcome with endorphin-related feelings of well-being, I shouted out encouragement to the cyclers struggling up to the Mosier Twin Tunnels, "You're looking strong!" "Almost to the top!" Folks did not seem to receive this well--I got only stony looks in return. During an ultra, everyone you encounter has a supportive word for you (Or at least as far as I know, as a middle to back of the packer. Maybe the front-runners don't waste their breath or focus like that.)

It was midway up the climb back to Rowena Crest when we rolled back by the U-Pick sign. You better believe we turned off. We grabbed buckets and headed out into the orchards to gather as many cherries as we felt our bike baskets would accommodate. I picked three pounds and honestly I wish I'd grabbed even more of the plump, sun-warmed fruit.

The break gave us just the right amount of energy to push back up to Rowena and down the other side to The Dalles. The absolute high of spending the day in the sun on our bikes in some of the most beautiful country in Oregon stuck with us for the whole drive home.

60 Summits #29: Mount Ashland

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Sun, 18 Jun 2023 23:59:00 +0000

What I told everyone I was going to do over the weekend: Rest; clean house; read; catch up on paperwork; pamper myself. What I did over the weekend: Jump into another race at the very last second, drive 5 hours to Ashland, Oregon; run 13 miles up Mt. Ashland with more than a mile of elevation gain.

Apparently the best laid plans can go awry with merely a texted suggestion of a mountain-summiting race landing in my phone.

I've really enjoyed the few races that have been part of this project. Usually I am only willing to spend money on a race if it's an ultra-distance, telling myself I can run a half-marathon distance anytime I want and not have to pay for it. But these shorter races like the 25K Elk-Kings race I did last October and the Tiger Claw Ascent, which topped out at less than 3 miles (!) have been lots of fun. I knew I would finish them because the distance was definitely under my belt, so that anxiety point was off the table and I could just concentrate on trying to push performance. Of course, I've gone into all these races pretty much untrained, so performance is such a strong word in this context. (Or maybe I'm just trying to excuse my poor performance since I always end up in the bottom third of finishers.)

At any rate, I have had a blast during these races and the Mt. Ashland Hill Climb was no different.

I had driven up on Friday night and booked a room at the Ashland Commons, a hostel that caters to PCT through-hikers, so I wasn't expecting to sleep, but after a leisurely dinner at an outdoor cafe and a wander around the cuteness that is downtown Ashland, I turned in. At about 10 p.m., the other three women sharing the guesthouse room and I spontaneously all turned off our reading lights and went to sleep.

I didn't wake up until the pale early morning light was filtering through the shades.

There was only the barest whisper of butterflies in my stomach as I stood around Ashland's Lithia Park before the race began. I met another tough lady in her 60s who had driven from Idaho for the race and we chatted about this and that. She gave me pointers as she had run this race several times before.

And then the the starting bell was rung and we were off. The first couple miles were on pavement, so everyone was running and I gradually drifted to the back of the pack. I ended up chatting a little with a woman who lived in Ashland and was planning on running back down from the top to her house after the race. She and I were relatively well-matched in terms of pace, although she did start pulling ahead, which was actually perfect for me, as I resolved to just keep her in sight (she'd run the race before, too, so I knew if I could see her ahead of me, I was on the right trail).

Soon we hit the woods proper and started running on a gravel road. The grade was still pretty runnable in spots. When the steeper sections started in, I passed a few folks who had maybe gone out a little too fast, like the two guys wearing weighted vests (!). I blew through the first aid station without stopping, but by the time I hit the second one at the halfway point, I needed some fueling and more water. It wasn't a hot day, but it was sunny and I was working hard and sweating up a storm.

It wasn't long before I got my first glimpse of the summit through the trees. I had seen the mountain the day before, driving down, and thought, she looks pretty tall. It's the highest summit in the Oregon portion of the South Siskiyou range, standing at 7,500 feet. The summit was streaked with snow and had a soccer ball-shaped radar station that stood out. It seemed really far away.

By this time, I was doing A LOT of power-hiking, just trying to keep my miles under 20 minutes and pretty much succeeding. I was hoping to finish the race in under four hours. A flattish stretch a mile nine meant I could run some and that helped me not fall too far behind. But after the aid station at mile 10, the wheels began to come off. Another 60-year-old who was just power-hiking along was on my tail and I was determined to stay ahead of her, but the grade was steep and I was beginning to fatigue. I managed to hold her off for nearly two hard miles, but as we approached the Mt. Ashland ski lodge, I gave up and fell back to let her pass.

Things were QUITE STEEP now and I could tell I was on the verge of cramping. The lodge, at mile 12.5 or so, was the last aid station before the final push to the summit. I grabbed some loaner poles and filled my water bottle with electrolytes, but it was too late. As I started up the path toward the summit, my left thigh muscle cramped aggressively and I had to stop and slowly stretch it out. I took another step and it cramped again. Meanwhile the race photographer was waiting patiently 20 yards ahead, watching this little drama play out. I can't wait to see the race photos.

Finally I got my quads to behave and started to climb that last .75 of a mile. It was quite brutal, gaining 750 feet in less than a mile. I was so happy I had the poles. I had to consider each step though, and put my foot down in a way that wouldn't cause my calf muscles to cramp.

After 45 minutes of climbing, I finally scrambled up the last few rocks and crossed the finish line in 4 hours and 6 minutes, just 6 minutes short of my goal. I climbed past the soccer ball and onto the true summit to rest a bit, feeling pretty happy to be done. The clouds hung low but I still got a decent view of Mt. Ashland's Siskiyou sister, Mt. Shasta. When I had recovered enough, I hobbled down the mountain (not an easy feat at that point) to the ski lodge to drink as many cans of Lacroix as I could and
catch a ride back into town.

I so appreciated the welcoming vibe of the Ashland running community; I can see coming back to this race in the future.

60 Summits #28: Sutton Mountain

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Wed, 14 Jun 2023 06:58:00 +0000

I've said it before: the desert just gets me. The dense forests of NW Oregon wrap you in a green hug, but the wide-open vistas of Central Oregon's high desert make my heart soar. Being on top of a mountain in that environment is exhilarating.

I'm not sure where I came across a description of Sutton Mountain (maybe in the huge stack of William Sullivan hiking books that lives on my couch these days), but it intrigued me. It's just outside the tiny town of Mitchell and adjacent to the Painted Hills unit of the John Day Fossil Beds. Currently BLM land, Sutton is under consideration for designation as a national monument. It's got my vote.

I had tuckered myself out with two nights of camping and a 15-mile effort the day before (See #28), so I decided to take it easy at Sutton and just hike it out. The hike starts out on a hidden turnoff behind a closed gate. I ended up parking on a road pull-off because the suggested parking spot was absolutely full of ground squirrels that I didn't want to park on top of.

I was happy I had gotten an early start, because after the first mile and a half or so, the trail is fully exposed. This is definitely a hike for fall, winter, or spring. Avoid it during the heat of the summer.

I followed the rustic jeep trail up through meadows of dry yellow grass waving in the breeze. It felt like the wildflower show was a little past its peak in the second week of June, but there was still plenty of paintbrush, Oregon sunshine, and lupin to admire.

As I headed up the trail toward the summit the views got ever more incredible. Rounded hills in the foreground back up by rocky buttes. It looked like something out of a Western film.

Getting to the summit requires a little bit of bushwhacking over uneven ground across the spine of the mountain, but it wasn't difficult and the view that awaits is worth it: the Painted Hills are spread out in the valley below. It's an unusual view of these geological formations. Afterward, my appetite was whetted for some close-up views of the Painted Hills, and since they were only about a half-hour drive away, it was easy to tack on a few more steps and take in the wonder of these beautiful and surprising mounds of colorful sediment.

60 Summits #27: Lookout Mountain (Ochocos)

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Tue, 13 Jun 2023 05:35:00 +0000

Doing this project has given me many insights about I can live life in a way that is fulfilling and joyful.

For one thing, as I was preparing for my annual review at work and doing my usual grumbling to myself about how they should just let me alone to do my job and not make me set any SMART-ASS goals (Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Relevant, Time-bound — AND SO STUPID) because I am terrible at setting any kind of goals in my life, I realized, duh, I am currently in the middle of working toward a pretty big goal that I set for myself and that I seem to be achieving.

What has really stood out for me though is how absolutely, positively free this project is making me feel.

Take this last weekend for example. Early in the week, I had formulated a vague plan about going to do Sutton Mountain, just north of Mitchell, Oregon. But I just couldn't bring myself to drive 3.5 hours to do an 8 mile hike. So during the week, I worked on the details. I found a second mountain nearby (Lookout Mountain, the highest peak in the Ochoco National Forest), upgraded my sleeping bag, and researched campgrounds between Prineville and Mitchell.

Now, I've solo camped a couple of times before, but it felt pretty bold to me to just throw all my stuff in the car and head out without reservations. And when I got to the campground at the Lookout Mountain trailhead, my worst fears were realized. a). The campground was full and b). It was kind of shitty anyways. There was no cell service to research any other campgrounds in the area. So I followed my intuition. It was still plenty light out, so I cruised down some dirt roads and started to see signs for other areas in the National Forest. After about 7 miles, I came to Wildwood, a rustic, free campground with no camp host in the middle of the woods. There were no other campers here at all.

I set up my tent and ate some dinner. I have to say, a deserted campground is pretty creepy when you're all alone with no phone service. I practiced some good self-talk, telling myself that many women have done solo through-hiking trips and other brave feats while I was just trying to car camp by myself. I turned in early and laid awake, listening to my tent rustle in the slight breeze.

Unsurprisingly, I survived the night. I broke camp and drove back to the Lookout Mountain trailhead. There are several different ways to reach the summit of Lookout besides the Lookout Mountain trailhead, which offers 7.75 miles of hiking each way, but it wouldn't be the Miriam Way to take a shorter route.

The hike itself was lovely. Almost as soon as I started, I heard a rustling in the trees and looked to see two female elk hanging out in the morning sunshine. The trail rose gradually but markedly and soon I was in flower-filled meadows blooming with paintbrush, balsamroot, iris, and lupine. Butterflies flapped lazily from flower to flower. The trail was mostly runnable, with a layer of soft duff.

I made it to the top in under three hours, which, in comparison to the Table Mountain debacle, felt absolutely speedy. It was another gorgeous, cloudless day and I hung out on the flat, spacious summit and chatted with a couple of other hikers, who helped me identify the line of snow-capped Cascades we could see: Broken Top, the Three Sisters, Bachelor, Jefferson, and Hood.

During my trip down the mountain, I had a profound sensory experience. The ponderosa pines had been baking in the sun all day and smelled incredible. I realized that it was a scent I associated with the hikes I had done as a child in Wyoming.

Afterward, I headed to the Ochoco Divide campground, a decidedly more peopled spot to set up camp than the previous evening's spot. It was fair amount noisier, due to it's proximity to the road, but somehow I slept better.

60 Summits #26: Table Mountain

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Sun, 04 Jun 2023 06:30:00 +0000

I knew there was a reason that I stayed up late the night before this one, 26 tabs on my Chromebook open, looking for a summit that would be somewhat nearby, navigable in late spring ... and, most importantly, NOT Table Mountain.

I had climbed Table Mountain last summer before this project got underway and from what I remembered, it had several things that made it unappealing. For one thing, trailhead closures over the past few years have led to a 6+-mile hike on the PCT before you actually get to the ascent of Table Mountain. This puts the total mileage for the day at around 16 or 17 miles, about a third of it on unpleasantly rocky ground.

The other thing that isn't super appealing is that once you leave the PCT, you have two choices about which route you take to the summit. Both, to put it mildly, suck. More on that later.

Anyway, as I mentioned, I had been up late the night before googling alternatives, so I wasn't able to motivate into an early start and arrived at the trailhead around 9:30. Did I mention there's a kind of annoying spur trail to take for about a mile before you get to the PCT? Well, there is.

Still, I started the day in a pretty good mood. The weather was cool and sunny and the first couple of miles are rolling hills. After that, you enter a clearcut. It's been very meaningful to return to this hike over the years. I started doing it with Sage when she was in middle school and we'd hike just to Gillette lake and back. At that time, the clearcut was fresh and very barren. But over the years, it's been interesting to see the greenery return. Thimbleberry bushes abound, along with Oregon Grape, foxglove, and other shrubs. Vine maples have started to grow and fill in the area.

Crossing the road that divides the clearcut area from Gillette Lake, I got a clear view of my goal: the hulking triangle of Table Mountain (see photo above). Ugh, I said to myself.

The Gillette Lake area is always pretty. The lake is a vibrant green color and there are sturdy bridges over the creeks that feed it. But once you're out of that area, the climbing gets a more steady. I was still in the shade, though, and I had plenty of energy, so it was all good.

After a couple of hours, I was at the base of the Heartbreak trail. When I did this last year, I took this route--it goes straight up the mountain and ends in a boulder field that needs to be climbed up. This time, I met a hiker on the way down and he reported that Heartbreak was pretty overgrown and unpleasant, so I decided to take the West Table Mountain Trail.

I had heard there was lots of scree on this trail, and the rumors were true. This approach was barely less steep than Heartbreak, and is mostly on exposed piles of rock and scree. Each mile took close to an hour to complete as I hauled my carcass up the mountain. Looking up, it seemed like the summit was getting further away as I climbed, not closer.

On the other hand, as the trees fell away, the wildflowers and butterflies arrived to put on a show. There were lots of big swallowtail flitting around the paintbrush and other lovely flowers. When I looked back over my shoulder, Mt. Hood came sharply into view.

Did I mention the false summits? There were several places where it seemed like the climbing might be close to being over, but they turned out to be mirages, chimeras, dreams built on nothing more than hopes.

When I finally crested the last bit of trail, I realized that I had the whole mountaintop to myself. Turkey vultures soared above me, riding updrafts. I felt so punk at that moment, so dehydrated and depleted, I wondered if they'd showed up to pick at my carcass.

I sat down and had a little food and water and felt better. But I couldn't stay long--the bugs were aggressive up there.

Going down the scree was easier, but not faster, than going up, and I lost another hour and change getting the mile down to where the trail met back up with the PCT. I tried jogging down, but really at that point, I just did the best that I could and kept putting one foot in front of the other until I was back down to the Gillette area, where I saw a 10-inch box turtle. What the heck was he doing here? Maybe native to Washington, but neither Sage nor I have ever seen one hiking before.

Happily for me, I've knocked Table Mountain off my list and I don't need to do it for this project again. Heck, I am not sure I ever need to do it again...unless somebody is up for a big hike and wants some company....

60 Summits #25: Silver Star Mountain

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Tue, 30 May 2023 06:18:00 +0000

I'm exhausted, dehydrated, and (sun)burned to a crisp.

If you give a girl a three-day weekend, she's going to want to spend every day on the trails. Memorial Day weekend started out with a lovely one night backpacking trip with my favorite (and up to now, only) backpacking partner, Sage.

We headed out on Saturday morning to Eagle Creek. Not that Eagle Creek, because neither of us wanted to deal with crowds. Instead, we hit up the Salmon-Huckleberry Wilderness Eagle Creek trail. If more people read this blog, honestly I might not want to talk about it. It's such a special spot just one hour from Portland. What it lacks in awe-inspiring views, it makes up with simply stunning old growth trees. The woods were thick with cedars and douglas firs whose giant circumferences really made me contemplate just how fleeting my own life is compared to these trees that likely have been alive since the 1800s.

We hiked in about 6 miles and set up camp for the evening. My backpack was comfortable, my feet didn't hurt and we had an amazing curry that Sage cooked on a tiny camp stove that featured oyster mushrooms we'd foraged earlier in the day.

On Monday I dropped Sage at the bus to go back home and headed up to the trailhead for Silver Star.

Silver Star has been on my to-do list for some time, ever since I read about the South Ridge variation of the hike on Oregon Hikers. Basically, there are a couple of approaches to summiting Silver Star. From the North, the hike is short, but the drive is not for those with passenger cars. The Grouse Vista trailhead is where most people access the trail, but somehow the longer, more elevation gain-ey South Ridge route appealed to me.

The trail starts at a rutted old jeep road and just climbs up. Luckily the terrain turns less rocky after a mile or so and winds up through lush groves of big leaf maple. The day started out foggy, but by the time I broke out onto an exposed ridge, it was beautifully sunny.

Oregon Hikers suggested making the hike a lollipop loop to visit an area called Indian Pits, a high rocky area that would require a little off-trail work to get there. I impulsively decided to head up there first and I'm glad I did--I probably woudln't have done it if I'd gone to the summit of Silver Star beforehand.

I headed up the rocky scree slope to the pits and was gobsmacked with a view of Mt. Hood. I stood around admiring for awhile, then headed down the backside toward Silver Star. Now, what I hadn't taken into account was that, coming from the South, there was no snow, but as I dipped into the shady hollow between the two mountains, there was lots of snow--and there weren't any tracks to follow.

My trusty Hiking Project App was consulted may times transversing the mile between Indian Pits and the Summit to trail Silver Star. I was happy I had brought my microspikes, because the deep snow was slushy on top and pretty darn slippery. It probably took close to an hour to get across this, what with the stopping and going and working to stay pointed in the right direction. Bear in mind that I literally had seen no people on the route, so when I neared the trail junction and spied a couple of hikers through the trees, I whooped with joy.

When I reached the Silver Star summit trail, my heart was light and I tripped up the snow covered trail to the top.

And wow! I could see every mountain there was to see: St. Helens, Ranier, Adams, Hood, and Jefferson were all so close it felt like I could reach out and touch them. The summit was PACKED with people, all enjoying the bonkers views and the bright sunshine.

The way back down was filled with more adventure...There was plenty of slick snow and even a bit more trail breaking to get back to the South Ridge trail.

I feel like that hike will be at it's peak beauty in a month or so--there were flowers out today, but I suspect that the flanks of the mountain will be covered in them come late June.

60 Summits #24: Rogers Peak

noreply@blogger.com (Miriam) — Sun, 28 May 2023 23:53:00 +0000

This project has taken me to some of the most crowded hikes I've ever been on (see entry #23, Mailbox Peak), and some of the least crowded, too.

Roger's Peak fits into the latter category. In fact, there are only a couple of hikes on this list where I haven't seen another soul. This was one of them.

Well, except for my friends Amy and John.

I had known that Rogers Peak would be a little desolate. Just outside of the Tillamook Forest, it's on land belonging to a timber company that allows folks to access it on foot. To get to the trailhead, it's a nine-mile dirt road drive, which tends to further dampen enthusiasm. Amy and John are accomplished at orienteering, so I was happy they would be there to help me navigate my way to the summit if necessary. And also because I thought it might be spooky out there all by my lonesome.

Actually, it was spooky out there, even with friends!

Amy and John picked me up at the Elk Creek trailhead on an overcast day and we made our way up the pretty passable dirt road to the trailhead. From the start, it was a foggy, moody day up there. The trail wasn't a trail, per se, just logging roads that circumnavigated the peak, making them great for jogging and talking since we could be side-by-side as we made our way.

John wanted to do a small side trip down to Blue Lake, and I'm glad we did -- the little lake was so pretty and peaceful and green. We could see fish breaking the surface of the water.

We didn't stay long as it started to rain as soon as we were on the shore, so we trundled back up to the road and kept going around the summit.

When we popped out on the north side, the road got a little more rugged and there were patches of snow to cross. There was some blow-down to navigate as well. We could tell there would have been a great view, if not for the veil of fog that hung thick around us.

The path to the summit soon beckoned off to the right and we headed up a little user trail that looked like it didn't see much use. After about a quarter mile, there was a brief bushwack and we were standing on top of the peak. On the best day, there wouldn't have been a view because it was in a thicket of trees. But there was a little summit log to fill out and we hung around up there, having a little snack and chatting. I saw a big pile of what only could have been bear droppings (although we didn't see any wildlife at all up there).

As we made our way back to the car, the fog lifted just perceptibly enough for a bit of a view. We could see Saddle Mountain to the west. Ultimately it was a fun hike and a relaxing day with friends in an area that we had all to ourselves.