Category Archives: Hiking

Trip reports!

Columbia River Gorge wildflower hunting

May 22-24, 2023.

Photo album

Tom McCall Preserve

6 miles | 1330’ ele. gain |3.5 hr.

After dropping Aaron off at the airport for a work trip, I pointed the van north and drove towards the Columbia River Gorge. I’d spent countless hours there when I lived in Portland, so I was excited to revisit an old friend. I parked at the Rowena viewpoint, where I could go on two short hikes. I started on the trail that ambled along the edge of the plateau above the Columbia. The wind blew ferociously. I remembered how bad the wind could get here, but this seemed even a bit much for the gorge. I cinched up the hood on my wind shell and began walking.

It was evident from the beginning that I missed the peak balsamroot blooms; the withering yellow flowers looked battered and sad. But there was plenty other things to see: arrowleaf buckwheat, lupine, yarrow, onion, peas. And my old pal poison oak!
I was ready for poison oak now. I could see it from a mile away. Instead of comfy shorts and sandals, I wore long pants, socks and trail shoes. I would no longer brush off poison oak as no big deal. Now on day 2 of steroids after 8 painful, itchy days of a vicious poison oak attack, I gave that heinous plant a wide berth.

The sign at the trailhead implores visitors to stay on trail, but it’s not well-marked and user trails braided this way and that. I did my best to follow the main route plus the side loop, but somehow I veered off onto another path. If you want to keep hikers in line, you gotta let them know where to be!

Back at the parking lot, I reset my trip odometer and headed uphill towards Tom McCall Point. This trail was much more my style, switchbacking uphill through blooming meadows and pockets of shady forest. Here, I saw large-flower triteleia, paintbrush, bedstraw, wild roses, white-stem frasera and the star of the show: sticky penstemon. These gigantic purple flowers stopped me in my tracks as they stood tall and vibrant in the upper meadows. Stunners!

After that hike, I’d pretty much had it with the wind. I drove to nearby Memaloose State Park to find a campsite and relax. I knew I had an early wake-up the next day.

Dog Mountain

7 miles | 3075’ ele. gain | 5:50 hr

I met up with my friend Greg just after 6 am at the Dog Mountain Trailhead. I remembered this place being popular, and I know I’d hiked it a few times before. But its popularity had grown since I lived in Portland. Plus, the flowers were peaking and people lose their minds over this trail. I’d never actually gone for the wildflowers before so this would be a new experience. All of this to say: the 6 am start time would be crucial for enjoying this hike!

A few short steps up the trail and I realized that I’d met my match for photo-taking. It was nice to be able to take our time, identify every little flower, and try to document as much of the interesting flora that we could on the way. We had all day, in fact, so why rush?

Before getting remotely close to the famous yellow blooms, we saw so much: ookow, inside-out flower, spotted coralroot, Columbia anemone, to name a few. Every time I stopped to look at one thing I discovered three more things. The cool, dark forest was resplendent with a staggering diversity of plant life. I know there are plenty more flowers I don’t even have photos of, mostly because I’ve already got a zillion (I’m looking at you, woodland stars).

The famed balsamroot meadows were, in fact, spectacular. And even though I’ve seen the same damn image more times than I can count on social media, it was still really cool to be standing among thousands of cheery, yellow blooms swaying in the incessant wind.

Although the wind was not nearly as bad as the previous day, the sky was overcast and the air was cool. Despite my layers I was chilled to the bone. These conditions did not stop Greg from taking many, many photos. So at one point I headed up to the summit to wait for him as he captured every last thing that needed capturing. I gladly found myself a coniferous La-Z-Boy, downed some food and savored being out of the wind.

Eventually, Greg joined me at the top and he got to take his break as well. It was too cold for me to paint today, and I had other people to see in the afternoon, so we headed back down. We took a slightly different route that detoured into a light and beautiful forest filled with new wildflower treats. Fendler’s waterleaf, vine maple, Hooker’s fairybells, Oregon grape and the very last of the Dutchman’s breeches were on display. In addition, there were more checker lilies than I’d ever seen on a hike before, wow!

Each section of trail had its own joys and surprises. Among the shadows of the darkest parts of the forest, Phantom orchids sprouted in the hundreds. They were not quite in bloom yet, but they were getting ready to put on a good show.
But alas, I had to leave that to Greg for a future hike. Back at the parking lot, I spied a familiar face en route to the trailhead. “Is that Linda?” I cried.

Yes, it was. I had a nice time catching up with one of my old climbing buddies from Portland and remembered that this was my home for a while. I’ve got roots here. And I spent the rest of the afternoon visiting a few more old friends, watering the roots so to speak, and preparing for the next leg of the journey.

Eagle Creek

14.5 mi | 1080’ ele. gain | 6:20 hr.

The last stop on my top Gorge hikes tour came on Greg’s recommendation: Eagle Creek. Again, my only preconceived notions/memories of this hike were something like: this is really popular and ten million people are going to be tripping over each other on this trail. Again, I showed up early, and there were only three cars in the parking lot.
I started at the Fish Hatchery and did the short road walk to the actual trailhead, where I immediately stopped to take a bunch of photos of the wildflowers growing on the vertical walls along the trail. Water seeped down the steep rock and moss, creating a perfect growing environment for arnica (probably), monkeyflower, maidenhair ferns and a new one to me: Oregon bolandra. I knew I had a 14 mile day ahead but I didn’t care. Nature made me stop.

The last time I hiked Eagle Creek, it was during a blizzard that shut down the highway in the Gorge just hours after we drove back towards Portland. I had only a vague memory of this trail, with its narrow passageways and bolted cables. As I hiked, I tried to imagine the work it took to create this trail on the side of a canyon, with vertical basalt walls, numerous waterfalls, inlet creeks and a host of other natural barriers. It must have taken a grand effort to make this come to life.

And how grateful was I at that moment that this trail existed! Every stretch had its own special beauty, despite the fire that ripped through mere years ago. Wildflowers blossomed and stretched up towards the sunlight. Shrubs and tiny trees sprang to life. Among the burned and scarred corpses of trees, many others grew lush and tall. After spending years hiking through the massive burn scars across Central Oregon, this landscape did not feel jarring at all. In fact, it was much livelier and robust than I’d imagined from what I’d read.

After hiking several miles, I finally began to hear the roar of Tunnel Falls. I appreciate a well-named entity, be it a waterfall, wildflower or mountain. The trail literally enters a tunnel behind the waterfall, making for a rather exciting experience. The anticipation grew as the sound got louder and the waterfall spray filled the air. I rounded a corner, walked into the belly of the beast, and emerged on the other side, surrounded by white shooting star and a carpet of vertical green vegetation. The trail was barely wide enough for me to stand, with a precipitous drop down to a pool of churning water. I could see how a fear of heights would paralyze any visitor here.

From there, I wasn’t sure how much further to go. I knew the Eagle Creek trail went on for many more miles. But there seemed to be some more waterfall commotion up ahead. Plus, I wanted to find a nice spot to sit and have a snack. Those opportunities were few and far between on this narrow trail! I was glad to have only seen two other people so far on my walk.

At this point, the dramatic trail paralleled a narrow, rocky gorge. Happy green plants sprung from every crack and crevice, seemingly reaching for the suspended droplets of water from the rambunctious creek.

To my surprise and delight, I came to the also-well-named Twister Falls. It took my breath away. I thought that I must have come here before, but after looking back at my hiking spreadsheet it appears this was my first time.

Occasionally, when out in nature, I am overcome by a feeling that must be described as “awe,” although I find it impossible to truthfully describe. It is a visceral feeling that takes over some part of my body. In this case I could feel a kind of expansion and warmth in my chest. I stood there at the falls, surrendering to this unusual but overwhelmingly positive sensation, as I felt a deep connection to this place at this time.
Once the feeling had passed, I sat down in a small gravel bar near the top of the falls and ate some food. The warmth of the day had begun to set in, and I still had a seven mile walk back to the car, so I didn’t linger long. Plus, I wanted to do some painting. I had scouted a good spot near one of the bridges about halfway back, which would serve as a good painting and secondary snack break.

I opted for a quicker pace on the way back, since I’d stopped for seemingly every wildflower and riffle of water on the way up. But, that did not stop me from discovering a few more flowers and scenic viewpoints that I’d missed on the way in.

Yes, the Gorge hikes are crowded. I did pass a bunch of people hiking in while I was motoring out. But, there are many reasons why these hikes attract so many visitors. I felt privileged to be able to return to the Gorge this week and hike three classics in near peak condition without feeling suffocated by weekend crowds.

But, if the only time you can get out there is on a summer weekend, I say go anyway. Go early or late in the day if you can, and either way brace yourself for an absolute mob scene. These trails are there to be enjoyed. And most normal people don’t abhor crowds as much as I do. Right now, the flowers are absolutely popping!

Illinois River Trail

May 10-12, 2023

Photo album

I decided to take a 3-day foray into the Southern Oregon wilderness along the Illinois River Trail. Conditions dependent, I considered a loop up Bald Mountain, combining the main trail with the Florence Way trail. This loop would have been about 24 miles. In three days, that felt like a reasonable plan.

What I neglected to consider is how formidable the Illinois River Trail could prove to be. For starters, the road to the trailhead is narrow, bumpy, rutted and carved into a steep hillside looming above the river. It was a torturous drive, and we even pulled over before the trailhead because of rumors that the last 2 miles was really bad.

Day 1

On the morning of May 10, I slung on my backpack and began the walk to to Illinois River East trailhead. The first mile or so of road was fairly flat and even, but it ran through private property so we would have had no place to park. After that, it became more narrow and rugged, with some big puddles at the end. I was glad we made the decision to leave the van where it was.

I hiked across the bridge spanning the raging Illinois and met with the next trail obstacle: poison oak. This stuff grows like a weed throughout Southern Oregon. And since I’ve been impervious to it in the past, I was a little nonchalant about walking through it on this trip (this would prove to be a very bad choice a few days later). The hot sun bore down on me as I crossed the burned, open forest. It had an eerie vibe, and as I passed a big pile of poo that consisted mostly of fur, I started singing some Capoeira songs aloud to keep myself company.

The trail was alive with irises, buttercups, mariposa lilies and much more. I frequently stopped to admire and identify the local flora. Far down below, the Illinois River dipped in and out of view. This was no ordinary river trail; while technically the trail followed the river, the water was often several hundred feet down and not visible at all. The steep mountains tumbled and crumbled down into the valley. The slopes were likely made unstable by the wildfires, which devastated many of the existing trees that held the rock and soil together. At times, walking on the trail felt like walking on the edge of a precipice that could give way underfoot. I don’t have much of a fear of heights, but feeling the wobbly overnight pack on my back made me walk a little slower and choose my steps with precision.

I crossed several little creeks along the way, including one that was lined with Darlingtonia, my favorite Southern Oregon native. Near that creek, I also got to meet a new endemic: Kalmiopsis. This pretty little pink flower cascaded profusely down the hillside, a beauty to behold. I only saw it in this one specific location on this trip. I’ll have to learn more about this plant to find out where it likes to grow and see if I can scout some more on future trips.

At last I reached a trail junction that led down to river level. This junction was brushy, obscured and unmarked, so I let my trail map guide me to the right spot. It was very steep and covered with dry, slippery leaves. Several fallen trees made a little obstacle course of the trail but I made it down without falling. Near the bottom, I changed into sandals to wade through a creek before the trail disappeared into the brush. I emerged onto a wide, flat area of bedrock, adjacent to the flowing water. It was time for lunch, so I found a spot near a calm pool of water where I could dip my feet and eat a sandwich.

By now the sun felt really hot. The idea of sitting blissfully by the water’s edge, reading a book and painting, was not going to happen. I put my pack back on and kept walking. I had to see if the Florence Way trail, allegedly brought back to life a couple of years ago, actually existed. This was the questionable link in my planned loop.

The “trail” through this section was more of a suggestion, as I’d find bits and pieces of a route that inevitably vanished shortly later. Clearly, not many humans come this way. As the route led back into the forest and prepared to ascent 4000′ in the next 5 miles, It was again obscured by massive trees down. I looked ahead to see if I could find any semblance of a passable route, but all I saw was ferns and underbrush. There was no way I was going to piece together a route through this unrelenting forest up that much elevation the next day, let alone with an overnight pack. I resigned to backtracking here and scheming a plan B.

Pine Flat was a fine area to camp, with lots of options. I ended up choosing a campsite in the forest on the other side of the creek I’d waded earlier because it was out of the wind and it had a nice use trail to a sweet little rocky spot on the river. From there I saw my first humans of the day: a small party of kayakers and one raft. I painted the river, made dinner and looked for wildflowers.

That night I lay in my hammock, memorizing the map for the next day.

Day 2

I awoke at 6 am, as I always do now, and walked out to my riverfront “porch” to have my coffee and apple pie for breakfast. That little 79 cent hand pie I picked up at Grocery Outlet a few days ago made a delicious, easy and calorie-full meal to fuel my morning. I hiked slowly back up the steep path to regain the main trail. At the upper junction, I dropped my main pack and bundled up a few supplies to take a side trip up the Illinois River Trail, just to see how well maintained it was.

Less than a half mile up the trail, I came across a smooth madrone branch across the trail. It was easy to step over, but I noticed an ominous message carved into it: “It’s f*cked up ahead.” Melodramatic, or…accurate? It turned out to be the latter. I soon came across another madrone down, this one large and filled out with leafy branches. I had done enough crawling over and through blowdown that I heeded the warning and turned back towards my backpack. There was only one more item on my list for today: Nobles House.

Another 0.8 miles back towards the trailhead, the Shorty Noble Way trail led down, on my map, to a spot just above the river. Based on the topo lines, it appeared to end at another flat area like the one I’d camped at the night before. It also looked less steep, and I had nothing better to do anyways. I started down this mysterious trail, curious as to what I’d find.

It began pretty pleasant and enjoyable, considerably less steep than the other river access trail. But soon it fell prey to the same hazards: tons of poison oak, blowdown everywhere. I took my time negotiating all these obstacles and got within spitting distance of an obvious camp. Then, there it was. The biggest and blowiest-down of them all. Madrone. Such a beautiful tree when it’s alive and vertical. But an actual monster when fallen to the ground. I literally just had to get to the other side of it. There was no going around; a brushy creek roared to my left and a dense forest created a barricade to my right. I had to go over. Fingers of poison oak reached up between the twisted branches. I took off my pack, scrambled over the main trunks, then reached back to retrieve my pack and hurl it down ahead of me.

Gosh it doesn’t look so bad in the picture

At last, at the camp. Or, not. There was a ton of historic trash there, plus some modern garbage. Not super pleasant. I found a path to an overlook of the river, with no way to get down to it. When I tried to settle in, it just didn’t feel like the right spot. I found a way to cross the creek and poked around on the other side. There, I found several more camping options, including a primo hammock site with shade and easy access to the river rock outcrops. Perfect.

I spent the day napping, reading, napping, eating, daydreaming, napping and painting. I worked on attributing value to not being productive and not hiking all the miles. This is a major mindset shift. Normally, when we go on roadtrips, the time is ticking. We need to pack in as many things as we possibly can because every minute not spent doing something rad is wasted. But when the roadtrip is years-long instead of days-long, that breakneck pace is not sustainable or enjoyable. I convinced myself that reading an entire book in two days was the most productive I could be, and I happily did that thing.

Day 3

On the last day, I just needed to return to the van. I sadly said goodbye to my lovely campsite and returned to do battle with my madrone. It was a thousand times easier on the way back, maybe because I already had a functional strategy or I was more mentally prepared or ?? I slowly ambled back up the trail, noticing so many more flowers than I’d seen on the way down. I was moving with the intention to see flowers instead of the intention to reach a destination. It still blows my mind how much intention impacts experience.

I stopped to squat and photograph all the flowers, including the secretive marbled wild ginger. So many loaded squats on this trip; I think botanizing will be my new workout regimen.

The early start meant I got to enjoy much more shade on the hike out than I did on the hike in. The temperatures were rapidly rising each day and I do NOT do well in the heat. I appreciated my newly developed 6 am built-in alarm clock. Blissfully, I backtracked through the lilies, kalmiopsis, arnica, monkeyflower, paintbrush, serviceberry, poison oak.

Back in the late morning, I had a quick recap with Aaron and made a plan for the next day. We decided to do part of the drive back out this awful road before there was much of a chance of oncoming traffic, due to the dearth of opportunities to pull off the side of the road. We made it back to Sixmile Recreation area, where we spent the afternoon splashing in the river, relaxing and enjoying the remainder of a perfect spring day.

Based on trip reports I’ve read about the Illinois River Trail, it is a very special place when it is clear and navigable! I knew that taking this on early season, especially in a late snow year, involved a high risk of severe blow down. It’s hard enough to get people doing trail maintenance on busy trails, let alone remote and relatively obscure ones. Maybe the trail was perfect past one rogue madrone? But I doubt it. I’m keeping my eyes open for opportunities to volunteer in this ranger district to help clear some trails. I’m also going to swing by a hardware store to pick up some clippers to keep in my backpack!

A reminder to myself and to you: contributing is far better than complaining. See a problem? Figure out how you can contribute to a solution rather than sitting back and complaining about it. Even better, figure out how to recruit others to help with your solution as well.

One final note: It turns out I am *not* impervious to poison oak. It didn’t start bothering me until the day after I got off trail. And I’m suffering dearly, with huge, itchy, puffy welts all over my legs. Four days later, they seem to be getting worse, not better. So, do what you can to avoid the stuff. Then, wash everything: your skin, your clothes, your gear, once you get off trail. Stock up on Tecnu products ahead of time. When we stopped into Safeway in Grants Pass, they were out of stock in all their poison oak products and Calamine lotion. Obviously top sellers in this area!

Eight Dollar Mountain Botanical Area

April 30- May 9, 2023.

Photo album

Southern Oregon is a hot spot for rare, endemic wildflowers. It’s also one of the earliest places to bloom in the spring. I headed this way in to try and see some of the region’s unique and special plant life during its prime. While the Eight Dollar Mountain Botanical Area has little for developed trails or viewing areas, the flora are abundant and if you take just a little effort to poke around, you’ll be rewarded with beautiful blooms in every direction.

During this time frame, I went on several hikes in or adjacent to the Botanical Area. Of those, two were on trails: the Eight Dollar Mountain Boardwalk and Kerby Flat Trail. Otherwise I used roadside pullouts, old roads, elk trails and did plenty of cross-country exploring.

Darlingtonia magic

The highlight of my visit was the California pitcher plant (Darlingtonia) flowers on full display. Although the fen visible from the boardwalk was in bloom, the plants were too far away to get a very good look. That was okay, because there were several other areas blooming just up the road. There are several pullouts along the road, making it easy to park and walk to anything of interest that you spot from the car.

Darlingtonia flowers
Darlingtonia flower up close

Before visiting, I downloaded some information from the Rogue River-Siskyou National Forest. They provide suggested itineraries, some background information and an extensive plant checklist. This was immensely helpful in determining which maps to have on my phone and where to begin walking around.

Flower power

Here are some of the plants I found:

Siskiyou fritillary
Western azalea
Showy phlox
Oregon violet
Silky balsamroot
Purple mouse ears
Wedgeleaf violet

This is just a sampling of the impressive array of wildflowers. There are more in the photo album linked at the top, and way more out in the field. I loved taking the time to learn more about each new plant I found instead of racing to capture the miles on this trip. The slower I walked, the more I noticed. And the more I noticed, the more curious I got.

Some of these flowers are tricky to spot. I stepped on a Siskyou fritillary twice, because it blended in so well to the grasses around it. Somehow the maroon and yellow speckled petals creates a greenish hue from above, rendering it nearly invisible. But I learned that the more attuned my eyes became to the familiar flowers, I was more likely to spot something unusual. At the tail end of my Eight Dollar Mountain summit hike, I came across some opposite-leaf lewisia scattered throughout a meadow. I noticed the flowers resembled that of bitterroot (another Lewisia species). So, I pulled out my phone and opened the Oregon Wildflowers app (yes, that’s a thing and it’s free and you need to download it). I typed in Lewisia and it took me no time to identify this rare plant that grows in a very narrow range!

Now, the treasure hunt continues. Onward to explore deeper in the wilderness along the Illinois River…

Adventures in Northwest Nevada

November 21-26, 2022.

Photo album

I always take Thanksgiving week off of work. Not to honor the holiday in the traditional way, just because most people will cancel that week and there’s no sense in me sticking around town for a few stragglers who may show up. So after taking care of a few errands in town Monday morning, I started the 5 1/2 hour drive to the edge of the Black Rock Desert.

Day 1: Getting there

As the sun was getting ready to set and I was less than 20 miles from my destination, I noticed a truck in the ditch on the side of the road. A man waving his arm stood up from near the truck. So this is how my week of solitude was going to start.

Long story short, this man was a long ways from his ranch house, his cell battery was dead, and the chance of someone else driving by was very slim. I drove him home as he thanked my profusely and I refused the seven dollars in his wallet. Once he was safe, I got back on track. The sun had long since set, and I rolled up to the free BLM cabin under a pitch black sky. Home.

Car emergency karma secured, I brought my stuff into the cabin, which smelled musty despite looking very clean. I built a fire in the fire pit outside and got to work setting up my camp kitchen. The cabin didn’t have propane or electricity but that was okay with me! I made stir-fry on the camp stove and lost myself in a book by the dancing flames by my feet.

Day 2: A hike to the top of a thing

As I get older and spend more time outdoors, I think less and less of what accomplishments I can achieve and get internet points for. Instead, I think about what brings me joy? What adventures can I go on? What can I learn from this place? Why would I want to rush through the experience as fast as I can so I can brag about it to others?

I still love chasing summits, but they don’t have to be long, epic, technical or notable in any way. Finding those little USGS markers is like succeeding at a scavenger hunt. And it helps me narrow down the endless options of where to go. So, I saw one summit within walking distance from my cabin and I packed my bag to head in that direction.

Since there are no developed trails or routes in the area, I planned on trekking cross-country to get there. But much to my delight, I found a gravel road that followed the broad wash that led up and into the hills. I walked the road network most of the way to the top, following tracks from rabbits, deer and other unknown critters. A thin layer of snow covered the ground. And although it was well below freezing the night before, I ended up reaching the summit in a t-shirt and sunglasses. It was warm, clear and quiet.

As soon as I sat down on a pile of rocks to start painting, a thick cloud blanketed the sky and the temperature dropped significantly. Despite that, I completed another watercolor, one step closer to my 50 days of plein air painting in 2022 goal, then packed up to retrace my steps out.

On the walk back, I stopped to admire all the shiny black rocks on the road: obsidian. I was surprised to notice how dull and drab the rock looked in the places where it wasn’t broken open. Although I felt I should have known that by now, it was an interesting thing to observe, just one of many pieces of knowledge I’d gain in my trip to the desert.

Day 3: Welcome to Sheldon

I sadly said goodbye to the lovely cabin and drove up towards the Massacre Rim Wilderness Study Area/ Dark Sky Sanctuary. This part of the country is one of the most remote places from urban areas (read: light pollution.) It was especially dark this time of the month, during the new moon. I was excited to poke around this new-to-me area. But I couldn’t find much information online, so I had a loose plan to find a gravel road, disperse camp, and explore on foot for a few days.

It was not to be. I drove all along the southern and western borders without a single enticing road to follow. Plus, a low cloud of frozen fog hung above the dry lakebeds where I’d presumably camp. Since it didn’t look inviting, I kept driving into the Sheldon National Wildlife Refuge.

I’d briefly visited Sheldon before, but it had been such a long time ago and there is so much that I hadn’t seen yet that it deserved a second trip. I stopped at the welcome signboard to note the camp locations and chose one that had a pit toilet as my destination. On the way to camp I stopped to do a short hike to another viewpoint summit, where I saw a few deer, a female sage grouse and a cluster of juniper trees.

The juniper trees are worth noting because I needed to harvest juniper berries (cones) for my Thanksgiving meal, and I hadn’t seen a single juniper since reaching camp Monday night. The hills were dotted with sagebrush as far as the eye could see, but the juniper were nowhere to be found. It had not occurred to me that this was possible, since there’s so much juniper in the Oregon high desert. I harvested enough berries for my recipes, plus a few more, since I had no idea what to look for in a juniper berry.

Each year, I question and redefine a new element of the Thanksgiving story. I’ve ditched the family obligations. I’ve re-learned my history. I deepen my connection to the land and my place in it. This year I decided to honor native foods and learn more about native cooking, by reading cookbooks and learning about Pacific Northwest foods. More on that tomorrow.

I settled into a very cold night at camp and went to bed really early. Not before attempting some night sky photography.

Day 4: The big meal reveal

It was difficult to get out of my cozy bed burrito. But eventually, the warm sun lured me out. I did a mellow hike to the summit, er, the gentle rise above my camp, did some painting and returned by lunch time. During the afternoon I did a ton of reading and splitting wood, then made a game plan to juggle all the dishes I wanted to prepare for dinner.

My revised menu consisted of my family foods (listed first) and foods native to the PNW. The list:

  • carrot and parsnip mash
  • meat stuffing
  • jellied cranberry sauce
  • green beans
  • corn pone
  • salmon patties with juniper berries
  • cranberry sauce made with local honey

For dessert, I brought a pumpkin pie to complete the Three Sisters theme (beans, corn, squash) as well as some heavy whipping cream to give me something to do after dinner.

The corn pone was dry, but otherwise it was an enjoyable meal. I’d make the salmon patties again! And while I do enjoy turkey, I didn’t miss it and I was not willing to pay the inflated prices this year. I think there’s a lot of value in assessing why we uphold the traditions that we have, and doing something because “that’s just how we’ve always done it” is poorly reasoned.

Without Aaron around, I had to whip cream myself for the first time. It took forever, as you’d imagine, in a tiny bowl with a plastic fork. But, I did it. It partly froze as it splashed against the side of the bowl, and it tasted absolutely fabulous with my pumpkin pie!

Day 5: One more hike

Determined to rescue my hockey-puck-like corn pone, I heated up some butter and heavy cream in a pan, dropped in my corn pone and let it simmer for about 20 minutes. Then I added huckleberries (from my freezer, waiting since summer!) and some maple syrup. That first bite was pure heaven. It was the tastiest breakfast I’d ever made. You can take that idea for the next time you overbake your corn bread.

northwest nevada

I turned to hike up the road from my camp towards another highpoint, about 5 miles away. Again I got lucky that the roads led me nearly to the top of the hill, so I was able to get there in a reasonable amount of time. It was cold and windy, however, so I didn’t linger at the top to paint. I ate some Pringles and took in the views before returning.

It was nice to be able to hunker down in place for three days instead of having to constantly pack and unpack my camp. I again spent my free time reading, painting, napping and enjoying the fire. I noticed how relaxed and at peace I felt in this space. A space most people would call “empty,” “desolate,” “boring.” I loved that I only saw one vehicle in three days. That I only heard an airplane buzzing overhead occasionally. And that the stars shone so brightly and intensely each night.

Day 6: What does the cold do to an old battery?

I awoke to a gentle snowfall and grayish-white skies. It looked like the weather was finally closing in on me. I built a nice warming fire as I made breakfast and packed up my camp. It was time to go home.

But when I tried starting the car, there was no juice. Ah, a dead battery. I immediately regretted not moving the car every day. Normally, we’re much more mobile on these kinds of road trips. Lacking a time machine, I grabbed my InReach and texted Aaron about my predicament. The battery pack car-charging device that we have was not in the top box but instead in the garage. I was too far to walk anywhere for help and it was unlikely anyone would be driving by today. Drat.

Eventually Aaron decided to buy a new battery and hop in his rental car to come bail me out. Remember the drive time between here and home is over five hours. It was about noon.

By this time, the sun had returned and it was turning out to be a lovely day. Minus the stranded in the desert part. But I had all my camping gear, so much food and water, and plenty of reading to do. I re-kindled the fire, set my tent back up, and prepared to occupy myself at camp for the rest of the day.

Just in case someone was out and about, I walked to the main road and drew a big arrow in the snow pointing to my camp. I wrote “help” facing each direction and placed a piece of firewood vertically in the middle of the road. One of those clues should grab anyone’s attention.

At about 1:30, I noticed a truck. I booked it down to the road, flailing my arms in the air. He saw me and drove into my camp. After 20 minutes of futzing around with battery packs and jumper cables, we got the car started. I thanked him, thinking about how crazy it was that I cashed in my car karma so quickly. To be safe, I left the car running as I broke down camp. I messaged Aaron to turn around and began the long drive home.

Every trip teaches many lessons. This time, they were about car maintenance (our five-year old battery needed replacing!), not freaking out, and trusting in the kindness of strangers.

And that is just one of many reasons why I love solo roadtrips. They always keep me learning, keep me humble and inspire introspection. This year I enjoyed the choice to keep the week free of goals an agendas. My only intentions were to: walk every day, paint every day and look up at the stars every night. From that very basic framework, I had all that I needed to enjoy a restful and meaningful desert adventure.

Elkhorn Peak, Wallowas

August 8, 2022.

Photo album

Mountains majesty.

When I re-planned my trip to the Wallowas, knowing I would now be going solo, I wanted to choose a route that would involve a base camp and day hikes. The first half of my trip was very strenuous, which is not sustainable forever. Ideally, on the second half, I’d be able to have some chill days and at least one summit day. That led me to the Copper River basin and Elkhorn Peak.

Elkhorn Peak, standing at 9238′, is the twelfth highest peak in Oregon. I decided to make this the central feature of the trip and scouted a basecamp from there. That line of reasoning took me to likely the busiest trailhead in the Wallowas, Two Pan. But my solitude-finding-superpower kicked in and I only saw about a dozen people in four days on this leg of the trip.

Solitude in the Wallowas?

I arrived at the trailhead around dinnertime on August 6, drove by tons of cars parked along the road and parked in a spot in the lot. I unpacked my car camping gear, set up camp at one of the free campsites and ate a pint of ice cream for dinner. I had no neighbors that night.

The next morning, I woke up and got my backpack loaded with ALL the creature comforts for a luxury three-night trip. A tenth of a mile off the trail, I turned off the main route to the lakes basin, then a couple more miles up I turned off the trail again to a lesser-traveled area, meaning I saw no one that morning. As Elkhorn Peak came into view, I began looking for places to camp. Despite the trail following the river closely on the map, there were not many great spots with water access. The river often flowed down in a rocky canyon for much of the way.

The trail kept climbing, but eventually leveled out right before a gentle creek crossing and voila! I spotted a beautiful, large campsite just off the trail with multiple “rooms,” plenty of hammock trees, a flat tent spot and easy river access.

The best campsite.

When you know, you know. That was the spot. I dropped my heavy pack and began unloading. Hammock in the den, tent in the bedroom, kitchen on the rocky ledge, bathroom tucked in the trees. I did a few camp chores, painted a creekside watercolor and read my books.

Elkhorn Peak and west ridge scramble

The next day, I left camp in search of the climber’s route that led to the impressive-looking south gully on Elkhorn Peak. I’d read the summitpost description a thousand times and I spent the entire previous afternoon and evening staring at the gully. I felt ready to go.

I discovered the climber’s path pretty quickly. It zig-zagged through the forest, crossed another creek, climbed to a rocky bench with a beautiful miner’s cabin, then descended to the base of the gully. Based on the topo map, I knew I had to climb 2000 vertical feet in about a mile. Here we go, I thought…

Miner’s cabin

Perhaps based on my recent experience or just my experience in the mountains in general, the gully felt remarkable stable and straightforward. It was steep and hard yes, but not scary, not that difficult, and before long I found myself standing at the summit in a tornado of butterflies. I called Aaron to check in and during that phone call I started rubbing my left eye. “Stupid sunscreen must have run into my eye,” I said. And kept rubbing.

elkhorn peak wallowas
Okay views from the top.

In an effort to make a loop, I’d eyeballed the west ridge, which at “only” a mile long seemed like a reasonable connection to a nice trail leading through stair-stepped meadows to my camp. At any rate, it would be more interesting than slip-sliding back down that gully. Or, so I thought.

Dear reader, I am a slow learner. I should have realized that based on the ridge connection I just did, that this was going to be more difficult than at first glance. It started pretty benign, luring me into such an obstacle-ridden cluster of ups and downs that I fell into the sunk cost trap. “Well I can’t just turn around now, I’ve made it this far.”

The ridgeline consists of a junky, blocky series of rocks that are sometimes passable, sometimes not. Either side of the ridge drops steeply into the adjacent basin. I mostly stayed on the south side due to exposure. While it was annoying and steep I was in no danger of just falling off the mountain. But that meant I had to go up and down and up and down on a combination of scree and solid rock in order to stay in the “scrambling not climbing” zone. Several solid rock ribs intersect the ridge at roughly ninety degree angles, and they were almost never traversable. I fought the urge to want to stay high on the ridge for views and joy with the urge to just drop low and get this shit over with.

My ridge is on the left side of the photo behind the tree.

Meanwhile, my eye was still really irritated and weeping uncontrollably. Even with sunglasses and a hat on, sunlight made it feel worse. I couldn’t watch my surroundings very closely through one eye, but seeing with both eyes didn’t help either. Then my nose started running.

Did I mention it was hot? The sun felt extra vicious and I had only packed enough water to do a straightforward scramble, not an exhausting one. There were a few trees along the way that offered small patches of shade; they quickly became my intermediate targets. My body fully resented me from taking on this extra challenge.

Approaching what appeared to be the last major obstacle, I faced a big, loose down climb to get around the last monster rib. I was so frustrated that I stopped to get my bearings and wondered aloud “Is the north side any better?” I looked up, and it seemed so far away, but I knew it wasn’t. I noticed that a solid slab of rock led almost to the top from where I stood. I went for it.

The slab.

That was actually the most fun part of the day’s scrambling! Once I took a look at the other side of the ridge, I concocted a new plan. It wasn’t going to be easy in any sense of the word, but I felt like I had more and better options on that side. Here we go.

Two hours after leaving Elkhorn’s summit, I arrived at a broad, rolling meadow that I knew would drop me back on a trail. I collapsed in a patch of snow, rubbing it all over my skin to cool me down. My water supply was low, but certainly I could ration it in a way that would last til camp. As soon as I found a creek, I dunked my sun shirt and hat in the cool water and put them back on. I felt human again.

My legs moved forward but my brain was toast. Some part of me knew I was moving through an exceptionally beautiful place, but I couldn’t enjoy it. All I wanted to do was get back to camp, change out of sweaty clothes and lay in the hammock.

Once I returned, that’s what I did. I dunked a bandana in the creek and made a compress for my still irritated eye. Now it was puffy, red, weepy and painful. I had no mirror to see if I had something stuck in it or what was going on. I hoped some rest would help.

A note on ultralight backpacking

Let’s start with something you likely know already: I am not a person who follows trends. The ultralight thing is no exception. I come pretty close to despising backpacking altogether. My body does not carry weight well. “Then Jess, shouldn’t you love the ultralight approach?” No, and here’s why:

I can tolerate being miserable while I’m walking if that means I can be comfy at camp. Packing light means carrying a finicky shelter that takes 20 minutes to set up, not having luxury items like books, painting supplies, stoves, nice food, hammocks etc that are excellent ways to spend time at camp. It means stopping to filter water every time you see a source instead of loading up for the day. It’s expensive gear that doesn’t hold up to repeated use. It’s more chores than I want to deal with. Those are simply trade-offs I am not willing to make.

So my rules for backpacking are:

  • There has to be a peak involved, or…
  • There has to be something really amazing on the route that cannot be experienced in a day hike.
  • I need to have something fun to do at camp like paint, read, etc.
  • I must have hot food and hot beverages.
  • Since I’ve learned this is an option, I must have my hammock!
  • I have to be able to keep myself warm.

I am willing to tolerate a LOT of suffering on my outdoor adventures. But a terrible time in a backcountry camp is where I draw the line.

Also, stay tuned for when I roll out my plans for the SKT website: Slowest Known Time. If I could name one trend I find even more annoying and elitist than ultralight backpacking, it’s the Fastest Known Time nonsense :vomit:.

Rest days

After that debacle, I took a full on rest day. I slept in. The clouds looked marginally threatening, so I took that as my cue to lay in my tent all morning doing crossword puzzles and listening to podcasts. Eventually, I rolled out into the world and packed up my painting supplies. I had to return to those picturesque meadows to stop for every wildflower and to paint.

A horrible place to hang out and paint.

A short hike brought me back to the place I scouted on my miserable return to camp the previous day. I found a nice perch with some shade on a rock outcrop. From there, I looked down on the winding alpine streams and delicate meadows. In the distance, jagged peaks rose up at a seemingly vertical angle. Wispy clouds, eventually turning into blanketing clouds, twisted and swirled over their tops.

It was my thirtieth plein air painting session of the year. My goal: fifty. At the start of 2022, I declared it the year of the watercolor and I knew I’d need some sort of direction to keep me on track. I sat and observed the colors, textures and shapes in my view. I struggled with the usual challenges of outdoor painting: changing light, bugs flying into my paint, wind blowing my pages around, the general lack of flat surfaces. It’s all part of the fun and learning.

Painted til the wind got too annoying.

All that was left on my Wallowas adventure was reading and napping, so I headed back to camp to do just that.

Later that evening, water began to fall from the building clouds. A gentle rain fell all night. I tucked into my sleeping bag, pleased with how kind the weather gods were on this trip. And, no mosquitoes either! A short walk and a long drive stood between my current reality and my future reality. I wish the amount of time I spent in each was reversed. And I’m working on that.

Sacajawea-Matterhorn-Hurwal Divide-Point Joseph

August 4-6, 2022.

Photo album

So pretty.

Thorp Creek

My adventure began on the Hurricane Creek Trail, one of the gateways to the Wallowa Mountains in Northeastern Oregon. I’d been to the Wallowas three times before, but never to this particular access point. I had dreamed up a route connecting several range highpoints on a three-day long loop, starting and ending at the Hurricane Creek Trailhead. My vision put together pieces from other people’s hiking, climbing and trail running reports; none exactly matched what I wanted to do. So, despite having one big hole in my plan, I set out to see what I’d find.

I used Barbara Bond’s 75 Scrambles in Oregon book to piece together the first day’s route. About 1.8 miles up Hurricane Creek trail, I was to look for a place to cross the (cold, ragey) creek and pick up the long decomissioned Thorp Creek Trail to access a base camp just downslope of Sacajawea Peak. At about that mile marker, I found the start of a well-worn use trail through the dense cover at the edge of the creek. This quickly disappeared, so I crashed through the brush and made my way to the water. I found a good place to cross, but no trail on the other side. No matter, I mucked around in the boggy grass, stopping to ogle all the pretty flowers, until I stumbled into bits and pieces of trail. Eventually the trail became continuous and I was on my way uphill.

Nice climber’s trail.

Since the trail officially doesn’t exist anymore, it is not maintained by the Forest Service. As a result, I had to step over a lot of downed, charred trees. It was nothing compared to what I’d eventually have to do, but in the moment it felt like some extra work. Where there weren’t downed trees, the trail was surprisingly nice, albeit very steep.

The trail climbed and climbed until it roughly leveled out on a grassy bench. All the surrounding trees were burned and either standing like a charcoal stick or littered across the ground. I could see the elegant north ridge of Sacajawea paralleling my route as I continued. The wind whipped across the bare rock and through the burnt forest, creating an eerie and foreboding sound. I walked alone, into the unknown and towards the Thorp Creek meadows I’d read about online. It was described in a mountaineering trip report as a beautiful place; mountaineers rarely wax poetic about the scenery so I had pretty high expectations.

Cumulus clouds over my camp.

Despite that, reality exceeded my expectations. I wandered along two small, braided creeks in a lush and open valley surrounded by high peaks. When I found a sufficient place to string up my hammock, I called it a day and dropped my heavy pack on the ground. From my camp, I carefully surveyed the surrounding landscape and memorized the features I could see. For the first time, I could see in person all the places I’d just read about online. It was happening.

I used my downtime in camp to paint, eat, recover and plan for the next day.

Sacajawea and Matterhorn

At 6 am, I started hiking. I knew I had a long and challenging day ahead. Sacajawea, the highest peak of the Wallowas, stood 2300′ above me and I’d cover all that elevation gain in approximately 1 mile of walking. With my overnight pack on. With all the water I’d need for the foreseeable future, since I would have no water access until I completed all the highpoints. I grumpily hauled myself up the relentless climbers trail under a clear und unsympathetic sky.

Sacajawea Matterhorn
On the way up Sacajawea.

From my camp, Sacajawea looked daunting. But the climber’s trail continued to provide a relatively easy and safe way to get up there. Before I knew it, I stood on the top. It was a bit disappointing, as the summit was merely a slightly higher blip on a rocky ridge, but oh well. No summit register, no fanfare. I walked uphill until I couldn’t go up anymore, then I started going down.

The gendarme ridge. This is what I had fretted about for weeks before the trip. Everyone talks about how sketchy and scary it is. And those people were mostly wearing daypacks. I agonized over how smart it would be to tackle this ridge with an overnight pack, alone, having never done it before. Exposure. Rock scramble. Knife edge ridges. Oh my. After consulting with my friend Matt, who’d done it himself, I decided I was up for the challenge.

Sacajawea Matterhorn ridge
One of the gendarmes.

On the other side of the ridge, I thought, “that was it?” Sure, there were some sections that got a little confusing, but as long as I poked around enough I found a way. Some spots were even marked with cairns! I moved slowly, intentionally and always took time to look for a reasonable way to go. If I started going over or around something and got uncomfortable, it was not the way. And so, with that behind me, I celebrated on the more interesting summit of 9775′.

This highpoint was smack in the middle of Sacajawea and Matterhorn. I’d return here to continue along the Hurwal Divide, so I joyfully dropped my backpack. With just a fanny pack and a half liter of water, I scampered along the solid and enjoyable ridge to the Matterhorn.

Yet another letdown. Sheesh. It was cool up top, to be sure, but I didn’t feel like I had to do any work to get there. If only I’d known how much work was in front of me, maybe I’d appreciate it more. There were 4 people milling around the summit, all of whom had come up from Ice Lake.

Sacajawea Matterhorn traverse
Matterhorn ahead.

I decided to enjoy myself a little more on the hike back to my pack, marveling at the interesting shapes and colors that some geologist could explain better than me. I stopped to gaze down the mysterious big hole and also made sure to take in the spectacular scenery in all directions.

Hurwal Divide Traverse

Underneath the full weight of my pack, I set off in an easterly direction along the long ridge making up the Hurwal Divide. It was not as scary and sheer as it had looked on the climb up Sacajawea, and for that I was grateful. I had a handful of photos from other people’s trips to go by, but no real sense of what to expect.

I mostly walked to the right of the ridge proper, avoiding the most exposure and traveling on what I dubbed “safe but annoying” terrain. The ground underfoot crumbled under each step. I skidded along the talus and scree for mile after mile, up and down, up and down. I’d scrambled on far more difficult terrain before, but the mental exhaustion of having to choose each step carefully really took its toll. Each time I slipped more than twice in short succession, I stopped to take a rest, sip some water and look around. It was so fun to actually see, up close, my view from camp.

Close up of Hurwal Divide.

Hurwal Divide Southwest (9508′), check. I tapped the top of this rubble pile among rubble piles, then kept going. Back down, again. This part was steep and loose with several gullies to negotiate. My brain was so tired from all the routefinding and my legs were tired from not being on solid ground for 90 percent of the day. I suppose it would have been easier to have better beta for the route so that I would have been able to mete out my energy and expectations over the course of the day.

But, I was in it now, so I pulled out every mountaineering self-talk trick in the book. Calling out moves helps me a lot: “right foot there,” “oh I don’t like that,” “that looks better,” “grab this rock,” etc. That, and singing songs, telling myself stories, faking some positive self-talk and occasionally just yelling “fuck this sucks.” My favorite strategy for keeping things moving is choosing intermediate goals. For example, to keep walking until that red boulder or that flat spot. Once I reached one goal, I’d look ahead on the ridge and select the next one. If I needed a break, I’d take a break at one of the spots I reached.

Despite all these tricks, I still moved slowly. The Hurwal Divide proved to be a formidable challenge!

The next major destination was the point at which the ridge abruptly turned north. I sat down here, took off my socks and shoes, watched the butterflies swirl around me. Buckwheat poked up from between the talus. And below me, Ice Lake glistened in the sun. I briefly considered bailing out to Ice Lake and hiking out to Wallowa Lake instead of finishing my route, but that thought didn’t last long. Let’s keep going, I thought.

Buckwheat and Hurwal Divide, looking towards Point Joseph

Belly full of snacks, I slogged along to the summit of Hurwal Divide. It didn’t look too bad on the map, but at this point in the day I couldn’t be fooled by that sort of nonsense. My journal describes this section as “and annoyingly loose shit pile with several little ups and downs, that at this point in the day, didn’t feel so little.” Fortunately there were a few sections of goat trail that made my life a little easier as I finished up this leg of the journey. I put my head down and walked; in about an hour I saw the cairn marking the top.

Here, I smiled wide at the sight of that cairn as well as something else. Ahead, on the ridge, I noticed a small knoll that had trees and a snowfield. C A M P ! My original plan involved continuing to Chief Joseph Mountain and descending to one of the creeks below. However, this looked incredibly inviting and I decided to shift my plan to spend a night on the actual divide. It’s the happiest I’d felt all day.

I still had to get there. Descending 1000 vertical feet in less than a mile, then climbing back up another 200 feet took some effort. As soon as I found two whitebark pines sturdy enough to support my hammock, I called it a day. I settled in for a painting session, a delicious dinner (and snow-chilled cider) and watched one of the most spectacular sunsets in my life.

Sunset to end all sunsets.

Point Joseph

“Not one mountain goat,” I grumbled to myself as I got up to make coffee. I was sure there had to be goats in the area, but despite all the time I spent at elevation the day before I had not seen one.

As I watched the sun rise and packed up my camp, I noticed a white rock on the hillside that I didn’t see during all the time I spent painting a watercolor of that same slope. Could it be? I zoomed way in on my camera phone and confirmed, in fact, it was a mountain goat! I was excited and quickly finished getting ready so I could see what would be in store for the day.

In the crisp morning air, I dropped off my magical knoll and began climbing up the next bump, a steep slope that got steeper and looser as I went. I followed the goat until the goat moved no more. Two goats, actually. Confused, I paused there to watch their behavior and decide if it would be safe to proceed. Goats have big pointy horns.

Stubborn goats

They paid me no mind, and the larger of the two plopped right down on the ridge. They had no plans to move any time soon. So, I followed suit and sat down too. For the next forty minutes. I put my puffy on, ate another bar, took some photos. I couldn’t believe my day was being held back by mountain goats, and I had some un-scouted terrain to cover!

Suddenly, they began to move…towards me! I found out why; what I couldn’t see was the steep cliff on the other side of them that apparently none of us could descend. So I ended up having to do a hairy downclimb to skirt around the cliff before re-joining the ridge. Ugh, this was already a morning. The rest of the ascent to Point Joseph proceeded smoothly and soon I stood atop its interesting brown cap. The entire mountain, save for the summit, looks like a hill painted in delicate pastels. But dark brown boulders create a fortress shape on the top, strange rocks I hadn’t seen anywhere else on this traverse.

Point Joseph’s fortress cap.

From the summit, I eyeballed my route down and checked the waypoints I’d put in my map. On the hike in, I tried to note good places to cross Hurricane Creek. I just had to work backwards to connect my current position with a reasonable creek crossing. What lay in between was my choice of rocky ridges plummeting into steep forest of unknown quality. From what I’d seen so far, I assumed it would be brushy and/or burned. I was right on both accounts.

Looking down the rocky ridge.

I dropped off the summit, followed a rocky ridge peppered with delightful wildflowers and descended through a steep forest. I ended up in a dry drainage, which I had hoped would be easy to follow. It was not. Back up on the steep, steep hillside.

At each point of the day, I thought I was at the hardest obstacle. I was literally never right. I sat down, took out my map and tried to gain perspective on the situation. I had one mile to go and I’d be at the creek. “I can do anything for one mile,” I asserted. Two elk, hearing my desperate affirmation, spooked and crashed through the forest. I got to watch them for a bit, since even they had trouble navigating the blowdown and tangle of weeds. Great, I thought.

The steep, forested hillside turned into a slightly less steep, burned hillside. It was at the state of the burn where some regrowth had begun. So I alternately was stepping over charcoal-crusted trees, crashing through ankle-grabbing brush, stepping into soft holes, weaving between incredibly sharp, twisted dead branches and looking for some path of least resistance.

Burnt forest.

There was none.

And then, it got worse. The regrowth became denser, taller and seemingly more angry with me. At points I could take a step and not know if I was on the ground or not. I’d step on a solid-looking log and crunch right through it. At one point I stepped down into thin air, dangling over a rushing creek, my hands grabbing for anything solid but the earth disintegrated in my hands. I CANNOT GET HURT HERE, I yelled into the abyss.

My frustration levels maxed out several times on this heinous descent through hell. Each step was carefully calculated, and even then, was often a failure. I had to downclimb, re-climb, backtrack, crawl under, scramble over and pull myself around an endless string of obstacles. Once I somewhat got the hang of the obstacles in front of me, the character of the forest changed and I had new things to figure out. There are no words to accurately express the degree of Type 3 Fun I experienced in that long, long mile. Skipping ahead two and a half hours, I made it to the creek.

Hurricane Creek.

It may be called creek, but it felt more like river. I couldn’t just walk across at any point. It was flowing cold and deep in some narrow channels. The point at which I arrived was not a good spot to cross. Upon checking my map, I learned I was further downriver than I wanted to be. What did that mean? More backtracking. Regardless, I was dying to get my shoes off so I swapped into my trusty Bedrock sandals and hoofed it through the (of course) thick, brushy riverside up river.

I ended up finding a place where the creek split into several broad channels, spreading out the water so it wasn’t so deep. But cliffs lined the other side of the creek, with no way to get up to the trail. Regardless, I went for it. On the other side, with nowhere else to go, I walked in the actual creek bed until the slope above me mellowed out. There was a little bit of bushwhacking and then…

THE T R A I L ! ! ! !

Elation.

I was so elated, I also do not have the words! I felt all the opposite feelings I had just minutes before. My eyes moist with tears, I practically ran along the well-graded trail all the way back to my car. It was the easiest mile of my life.

After changing my clothes and throwing all my gear in the car, I drove to Terminal Gravity brewery in Enterprise for a burger and a beer. I picked up a pint of ice cream at Safeway for dinner. And I drove to Two Pan Trailhead, where I’d camp for the night in preparation for the second half of my Wallowas adventure the next day.

South Warner Wilderness

May 29, 2022.

6.8 mi. | 2000′ ele. gain | 3:30 hr.

south warner wilderness

I had one final peak in me on our grand, Grand Canyon road trip. Plan A involved driving from Arc Dome Wilderness north through Austin and Winemucca into southeast Oregon and poking around some desert canyons and mountains to finish our tour. But, the forecasted thunderstorms made us shift our course west towards Reno and then up into southeast California instead. There, a little-known place called the South Warner Wilderness (which had long been on my “someday list”), called my name.

The night before my hike, we found a quiet, free, campground in the woods to stay nearby. We assembled some dinner with the remaining supplies in our food box and read stories from our Grand Canyon deaths book.

Again, Aaron agreed to drop me off at a trailhead so I could burn some energy while he stayed behind to do some work. I waved goodbye at the Pepperdine trailhead. Snow dusted the ground, even in late May.I could already tell I was walking into an adventure.

The closest highpoint, the poorly named Squaw Peak, was my chosen destination for the day. I didn’t want to leave Aaron there for too long. This off-trail destination is encircled by two trails: summit trail and Squaw Peak trail. Ironically, neither of those goes to the summit of Squaw Peak. Seriously, who was in charge of naming things there?! In my mind, I envisioned a loop in which I’d take one trail to get up the peak and the other to come back down. Here’s how it went.

south warner wilderness

After a short ascent through the forest, the trail leads across a beautiful, windswept, rocky landscape. The trail became challenging to follow under the light snow cover since there was no clear path through the trees. Everything looked like a path. Somewhat luckily for me, someone had just set off on this trail right before me so I could see his footprints. However, I’ve learned not to trust other people’s footprints in the snow. I proceeded with caution.

I got especially confused at one tricky switchback near a runoff ravine and some thicker trees that had me literally going around in circles for a bit. With the help of some shifting visibility and my GPS app, I eventually got back on track. I veered off the summit trail and followed a steepening ridgeline up to the top of the peak at 8646′. The last stretch of the ascent involved icy snow in the trees and then a mix of icy and powdery snow over boulders and stubby shrubs. It was tricky, slow going, but I topped out just after 1 pm. I found a summit register made from PVC pipe and caps, but the darn thing was frozen shut! I tried with all my might to open it up but I failed.

Wearing all of my layers, I hunkered down away from the wind and munched on some Cheetos as I contemplated my route out. I could make the easy choice and go back the way I came, but where’s the fun in that? From the top I could see steep, snowy cliffs below me. And to my right there was a bouldery pile leading to a snow slope that seemed within my abilities to navigate with the gear I had. Somewhere, beneath that snow slope, was the other trail that would loop me back.

I chose the latter.

It was fun to descend the slopes once there were no boulders sticking out! I practically ran down with the aid of my microspikes and poles. That is, until I got to a surprise marshy stretch that was hidden beneath the snow cover. Carefully, I poked my way along the edge of the marsh, trying to keep my feet dry. I could hear the water running below. There’s nothing worse than being cold and wet, so I tried to keep myself in the cold and dry. Eventually, I found the actual trail, veering off of it slightly whenever it made a weird stream crossing. I preferred to cross the streams where they were melted out and in full view; the sound of water beneath snow is not one of my favorite sounds.

After making it back to familiar territory, I picked up the pace. Much of the snow dusting I began walking through had melted during the sun breaks, so it was almost like hiking an entirely new route! Up ahead, I saw a couple of hikers stopped and looking closely at the ground. I thought maybe they had found a cool flower or rock or something. As I approached them, they pointed at me and said “hey, it’s you!” Apparently they’d seen an unusual track in the snow and were trying to figure out its origins. The track? My hiking pole snow baskets. We all laughed. I was glad to have given them an interesting forest mystery to solve while they were out and about.

Overall, this was a fun adventure that only served to get me more curious about this area. I’ll have to come back another time, with more time, and see what other wonders await me.

arc dome

Arc Dome

May 27, 2022.

14 mi. | 5000′ ele. gain | 7:45 hr.

arc dome wilderness sign

On one of several long drives on Nevada’s lonely roads, I spied the Arc Dome Wilderness in my atlas. For some reason, it captured my imagination. And, it’s featured highly on many mountain lists due to its overall height (#7 in Nevada) and prominence (#8 in Nevada). Prominence, if you’re not acquainted with mountaineering speak, is basically how high a peak is relative to the lowest point around it. So, since Arc Dome is 5213′ higher than the nearest low point, it has a prominence of over 5000′. There are only 57 peaks in the continental US that have a prominence of 5000′ or greater.

It was so far from everywhere that it was never on the way to or from another destination. I had to explicitly build it into a route itinerary. And it was so that this year would be the year I’d tackle the long hike to the top of Arc Dome.

Aaron dropped me off at a campground right at the trailhead, where I’d spend the rest of the day and get some sleep for an early get up the following morning. From there, he drove back to town to get some work done and sleep in a real bed. I also find it helpful while on a multi-week road trip with your partner, to find some quality alone time along the way! It was too hot for activities, so I relaxed with my feet in the creek while reading a book and drinking a pre-mixed margarita before calling it a night.

Climb time

The alarm rang before sunrise and I started walking under a dim sky at 5:40 am. The trailhead sits at almost 9000′ elevation, so I could feel the thin air struggling to fill my lungs right from the get-go. The trail switchbacks up through a lovely aspen forest, then transitions into an interesting sagebrush desert with big, old trees that looked a lot like bristlecone pine. Tiny wildflowers dotted the earth in even the most inhospitable places. It was a landscape like no other.

The Columbine trail climbed and climbed up to the Toiyabe Crest Trail, which I’d use to access Cirque Mountain, North Arc Dome, and Arc Dome, one by one. The trail skirts just below the first two on the way to the notable Arc Dome, but I couldn’t help scurrying up to tag the other two.

I quickly warmed up, despite the cool air and breeze, for all the effort it took to walk among giant peaks. It was worth it, however, to finally step foot in a place I’d dreamed of for so long, and to appreciate all its nooks and crannies. Plus, the views couldn’t be beat; I could see for literal miles.

arc dome

I hit my first highpoint just before 8 am under blue skies. In the summit cairn lay a register with entries dating back to 2015. I love reading the old entries and seeing how many people each year sign in on Cirque Peak it would appear, just a handful.

Coming off of Cirque, I met my first major obstacle of the day: a steep snow wall clinging to the east face of the ridge. Luckily, I’d packed microspikes just in case of such a situation. They helped me get on top of the snow with relative ease and I was back on route.

Next, I skipped right up to North Arc Dome, just a few hundred feet lower than Arc Dome itself. But, I had to drop back down to a 10,700′ saddle and then back up another thousand feet or so in over a mile of walking to get to the highest highpoint. It looked so far away from where I stood. This is why it’s important to get an early start and bring lots of good snacks. That’s just good life advice.

Forever was actually about ninety minutes, after which I plopped down at the top of the Toiyabe Crest and chilled out. This summit canister, made out of a mayonnaise jar, was filled to the brim with mini notebooks and scraps of paper upon which people signed their names. It’s amazing what being featured on a list or two will do to your popularity. Just a couple miles away, the book had hardly a few entries. Even so, I was the only human on the trail today and I was one of the first this year to stand on the top of Arc Dome. Kind of incredible.

As I sat on the summit relaxing, the sky got to work. What was formerly a beautiful blue backdrop became a swirling gray mass of clouds. I’d checked the forecast and all looked well, but I trust what I see and feel right in front of me much more than what I intellectually know. Besides, I had at least 5-6 miles of ground to cover before I’d cross paths with a single tree; if it started to thunderstorm, I would be a sitting duck.

With a big sigh, I packed up and quickly hauled out of there. As soon as the terrain allowed, I broke into a quick walk/slow run. There was plenty of talus and loose stuff that could easily sprain an ankle or worse. In that situation, there’s a fine line between walking quickly enough to get out of perceived danger and walking slowly enough to control your extremities and avoid getting hurt. This is just one of many judgment calls one must make while hiking in the mountains. To me, this is part of the excitement and joy.

While moving quickly, I still had to stop and admire the wildflowers, which had now fully opened up. I saw hundreds of asters that on my hike in had been completely shuttered. Whether it’s exposure to heat or light that makes them open I’m not sure, but they were expressive and jubilant now! They made me smile as I raced down the mountain.

To shake things up, I descended the Toiyabe Crest trail to Stewart Creek trail, making a loop. That meant I was out of the trees for a little while longer, but I got a fuller picture of the landscape and I stumbled across a small herd of wild horses, too. It was a beautiful loop; since I’ll probably never be here again, I wanted to cover as much new ground as possible. Despite the ominous clouds and wind, it didn’t rain one drop on me during the hike, and storms barely grazed the edge of camp later that evening.

What’s next?

So that’s two peaks on the Nevada top ten list for me so far: Wheeler and Arc Dome. I got stormed off a planned attempt at Boundary a few years ago. If I could pick one to do next, it would be Ruby Dome. I’ve walked into the base of the Rubies once before and their magnificence took my breath away. Nevada is a wonderland of unspoiled vistas and long mountain ranges. I’ll be back soon.

Lunar Crater

May 25, 2022.

2.75 mi | 500′ ele. gain | 1:20 hr

lunar crater nevada
Lunar crater, Nevada

Way out in the middle of nowhere, driving between two remote destinations in Nevada, I desperately needed a leg stretcher. I spied on the map one of the “unique natural features” that I’m so fond of. And it was a short(ish) detour to get there.

That detour: Lunar Crater.

To be fair, seeing volcanic features in the wild is a little less exciting now than it used to be. I’m surrounded by spectacular lava flows and volcanoes every day I live in Central Oregon. So, I wasn’t super excited that this was what we were driving out to. But, if the map architect decided to call it out in the Gazeteer, I thought it must be worth a peek.

The drive in took us past buttes, cinder cones, depressions and colorful lava flows. It looked familiar enough, but had its own special character so that I knew we weren’t exactly at home. The road came to a dead-end at the edge of a crater. Despite the name, it’s a run-of-the-mill volcanic crater, but it’s unique to this part of the west. So unique, in fact, that it’s “one of Nevada’s six natural landmarks.” This seems totally unreasonable given the amazingness across this state. I feel like the people who decide these things either don’t get out much or have a secret agenda to develop tourism in particular places. Anyways, it didn’t appear that the tourism campaign encouraged much development, so we had a nice quiet stop along our otherwise boring drive.

A short trail led from the parking area to a bench, and a user trail continued a bit beyond that. Eyeballing the crater, I guesstimated that it was about a 2-mile trip around and that sounded like the perfect little walk for me. Aaron disagreed, heading back to the car to edit his photos and catch up with friends and family via text.

The air felt much hotter than the mild 73 degrees that registered in the car, but that was likely due to the complete lack of shade and the heat emitted by the dark lava.

lunar crater nevada
The bouldery canyon

I moved quickly along the edge of the crater in my Bedrock sandals, which were getting a lot of use on this trip. It was mostly flat until it wasn’t. I descended into a bouldery canyon, which was much easier to navigate than it looked from afar. On the other side, I ascended up a relentlessly steep pile of cinder towards what looked like the summit. Luckily, there were so many tiny wildflowers blooming on this slope that I had more reason to stop than just to catch my breath.

Tiny flowers

Atop what I thought was the rim, I spied the true summit just to the south of the crater’s edge. I made a quick detour to the jagged boulder pile and found that I’d been beaten to the top, by a chubby black lizard. I touched the top of it without disturbing my highpointing lizard friend and sent Aaron a quick text check in.

King of the mountain

I’d be back in no time, I thought, and began walking back towards the edge of the crater.

I was stopped in my tracks, however, by a 6-8 foot tall vertical cliff band. Hmmm…I thought, it was supposed to be a quick but miserable scree slide off the side of the crater. I didn’t want to walk towards the center of it, so I backtracked to the summit and looked for a breach in the rock. Nothing. UGH. I’ve climbed so many of these volcanic buttes that I thought I had a good sense of what kind of terrain to expect, but then I remembered I wasn’t in Oregon anymore.

The rock cliff

After what I felt was too much backtracking, I finally saw a safe gap to get through the rocks. That 6 foot drop may just as well have been 600 feet; I couldn’t get down in either case. But what was worse was that the easy part was *so* close!! Annoyed, but in one piece, I proceeded to bomb down the steep, loose and hot scree field.

Remember, I was wearing my sandals, so every 3 seconds I had to stop and remove a rock that got between the sole and my foot. That was, until I discovered that loosening the straps just so allowed the pebbles to pass through without getting stuck. After that adjustment, I was infinitely more comfortable and fast! At the bottom of the hill, I re-joined a road that led me right back to where Aaron was parked.

I never would have sought out this place to visit, but it was a worthy diversion along our route that day. I’m glad I followed my curiosity all the way around the “lunar” crater.

Cape Final

May 17-18, 2022.

4.2 mi | 400′ ele. gain | overnight

cape final

In looking for a quiet and unique experience at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, I stumbled across a blog describing an overnight trip to Cape Final. It described an easy 2 mile walk out to a single backpacking site along the rim of the canyon. Sounded perfect! So, what was the catch? You had to secure a permit ahead of time to reserve the site. I dug around the NPS website to learn about reserving permits, and I learned that I missed the first possible date to send an application in by a few weeks. Undeterred, I faxed (yes, faxed) my application in and just a few days later learned that we got the site!

Fast forward to the afternoon of May 17. We had just finished the scenic drive and accumulated a few miles of hiking already. The sun was blazing hot, but this hike promised shade trees. We loaded up our overnight packs with every possibly luxury (since the pack in was so short!) and slowly began plodding up the trail.

We passed a few groups hiking out, all of whom were shocked that you could camp up there. Yes! I thought, my planning had really paid off. Cheery purple larkspur dotted the trail through the airy Ponderosa pine forest. In fact, I couldn’t even tell we were at the Grand Canyon; it was forest in every direction. After nearly 2 miles of walking, we finally got some peek-a-boo views of the canyon at the edge of the trees. The trail took a sharp right turn and soon deposited us at a little campsite marker just before the sign for Cape Final.

We quickly dropped our backpacks at the flat spot behind the sign. But Aaron noticed another flat spot tucked just behind some trees, and there it was: the ultimate campsite. We hoisted our heavy packs up once more and claimed this more private site as ours for the night.

After setting up camp, we gathered up food, beer and layers and walked out to the viewpoint. It was even more spectacular than I’d expected. We’d already seen so many incredible vistas, so I didn’t think this one would be any different. But this provided a panoramic view over deep, dramatic gorges; we could hardly figure out which one held the Colorado River just by looking out at the landscape.

I happily drank my Grand Canyon Prickly Pear Wheat Ale, accompanied by prickly pear cactus on the edge of the Grand Canyon, and we watched the setting sun paint ephemeral pictures of the cliff edges all around us. Vultures played in the thermals rising up from the warm canyon bottom as we reclined on the rocks. It was so quiet and peaceful.

And then we went into the tent to sleep. *Snort*. Those lovely thermals turned into ripping gale force winds that rattled the tent, the trees, my brain and everything else all night long. The nearly full moon blasted through the thin nylon walls like a bright headlight. And the remarkably hot air made this cold sleeper crawl out of the bag, sweating, for the duration of the night. I barely got an hour of sleep over the course of the evening. I could not wait for my alarm to go off.

I set an alarm for 50 minutes before sunrise, but it was already light by the time the alarm rang. We sprang out of bed and rushed to the viewpoint to catch the sunrise. I fumbled back to the food bag I hung last night to grab our coffee making supplies, because when else in my life would I be able to sip coffee with the sunrise at the edge of the Grand Canyon?!

Admittedly, the sunrise was not that exciting. But I couldn’t sleep anyways and the coffee tasted good. We returned to our camp where I made breakfast: dehydrated eggs, kale, turkey sausage and onions, topped with hash browns. Better than any lodge breakfast you could have asked for! We slowly packed up and then I scouted a morning watercolor spot while Aaron poked around and took more photos.

We stumbled across several other overlooks, arguably better than the official Cape Final, until I settled on my favorite one. For the next couple hours, it was just me and the birds and the ever changing light on the canyon.

cape final watercolor

To say this was a highlight of the trip is an understatement. Despite all the advance planning and anticipation (which can sometimes make a place feel *less* exciting once you finally get there), finding so much solitude and peace at Cape Final was worth the effort. I’ll catch up on sleep some other time.

See all our photos from the North Rim here.