I don’t even
think I can’t do it as I prepare my gear. Test temperature. Decide to pack
another layer. Pump up tires. Pack bars and quick energy gummies. I can no
longer carry a pack up a mountain by foot, but I can climb with just my body weight
and light gear on my bike. So I do – the feeling of euphoria and exhaustion at
the top worth the effort.
This pass has
become an annual tradition. A ride right from town, pedaling 15 miles and 2,000
feet up to the summit. It’s not straight up, or my back couldn’t handle it –
standing on pedals, grinding. It’s fast spinning 6 miles to the gate, where our
two wheels are separated from four as we start the windy climb to the summit. Just
bike traffic – nods and waves from those heading down and cordial greetings and
encouragement to those we’re passing on the road up.
Trees still
scarred from a Central Oregon burn a few years ago. Ground-level vegetation starting
to appear, sprouting from the seeds buried in ash.
Temperature
dropping as we ascend. Cloud front previously kept at bay now moving in, obscuring
mountaintops in the distance and the pass we’re nearly hitting as we round one
of the last windy turns.
Wind turns
icy. Jackets and winter gloves come on during ever-so-brief photo stop at the
summit for the fast ride down the mountain, frozen feet and hands slowly
thawing as we’re pedaling back to warmth, sun on the fast flat.
Back on Mt. Hood. It’s a week later and the snow is still the deepest I’ve seen in years.
Giddy, we pack up our gear in the parking lot. This time we come more prepared: a light-weight shovel, pocket knife, matches, extra warm clothing, food. At least closer to the 10 essentials than last venture.
This visit we get the benefit of following a large group’s tracks along White River. Until we see them double back toward us. It’s the end of their expedition – but ours is just beginning.
We seek to see what’s beyond where we turned back last time. What’s beyond a narrow canyon, around the corner from that cornice hill we saw last week.
Curiosity pushes our snowshoes over the river’s snow bridge – an opening to the small stream below reveals the layers of snowstorms over this past week and beyond.
We pass over the cornice hill diagonally and through the steep, narrow canyon where we take one step, slide back, another and slip before digging steps with our snowshoes. We end up in an open snow field, the wind pushing snow over the surface.
Euphoria – we’re right on that place where fear, excitement and curiosity meet. Where the mountain has its own weather system, this one coming off the summit. It’s snowing hard now, the sky darkening. We’re in danger zone but taking calculated risks, checking in with each other to gauge for hairs-on-your-neck fear, instinct-for-danger fear.
We press on over the open field, following a ridge until we get to the rim of a larger river. We’ve come as far as we could without changing direction to head into further into avalanche territory. We did what we set out to do – go higher than before – and we did it. One of the best snow seasons ever!!
Only a few have broken this trail today, heading higher onto Mt. Hood’s flanks. Following White River, crossing over it – covered in layers of snow. It’s been snowing consistently for about two weeks by now.
In all my time coming to this same spot over the last decade I’ve never seen it this deep. Never been able to cross over the river and head higher. So we do it, still following maybe two other tracks so our snowshoes still crunch as we further break the trail.
I make
Bezoar follow us rather than his usual lead dog so he doesn’t completely sink.
He’s so tall and at 75 pounds without snowshoes of his own he still sinks, but
less so, his webbed paws usually helping a bit.
We’re going higher, but it takes effort. We switch leads to conserve and realize neither of us has many of the 10 essentials. We have food, water, extra jackets and gloves, but no shovel to dig us out if we get into more avalanche areas, not much to keep us warm if a sudden storm comes in or one of us gets hurt and the other has to hike down for help.
That, and realizing that Bezoar will never stop trying to keep up as he sinks in the deeper snow – this is danger zone. We decide to come back another day, more prepared, sans Bez, and go even higher.
It’s been
tugging at me for weeks now, growing stronger. The agitation of the city,
stress and annoyance factor rising. It’s too late to garner a friend to join
but no matter – I’m going dammit – I have to. Loading up Bezoar and our snacks,
water we’re off and soon on the highway looking directly at our destination in
the distance. Clear skies, snow-covered beautiful Mt. Hood.
The drive is
precious think time. Bez is already snoozing, resting up for our adventure. We
don’t hit the snowline until the top of the pass – I hear snow is coming the
next week, but for now it looks like it’s been a few days since a several-inch
snow. I know exactly where I’ll find the most for snowshoeing – the
two-planking will come later this season – this is a day for my dog and I – and
the mountains.
Even before
we finally turn into the White River Sno-Park parking lot he’s whining in
anticipation. Soon his bark is right in my right ear – deafening. Distracting
him with a mini soccer ball as I pull on my gear, grabbing snowshoes and
heading to the trail. He’s always insatiable in the beginning – full of energy
and annoyingly finding sticks and chunks of wood to drop right in front of my
path. I throw packed snow at his face – he loves to catch snowballs – but today
the snow won’t be packed and it’s dissipating across his black muzzle, whiskers
turning white. He loves it and wants more. Did I mention insatiable?
He’d play
all day, but there’s a trail calling me. It’s worn from other snowshoers, so the
maverick in me sets out to make my own parallel tracks while Bez is chasing,
pouncing on the stick I just threw in the distance, then sniffing his way back.
Nothing like forging your own path, the packed snow crunching under foot.
Frosty Pine
tree needles, a single tiny branch jutting from a crack in a huge bolder. The
discoveries are small and wonderful – a break from constant to-do lists and
decisions back in town. The air thinner but clean and cold, refreshing. There’s
nothing like being outside in the elements – with the right gear.
We’re both
tired after an hour or so trudging up the mountain’s flank, turning to head
back down the path. Again, diverting from the main trail and charting my own
course through the trees. A sliver of sun crosses my path, revealing a cold frost
on the top layer like hard, beautiful clear crystals, shattering across the
surface in front of my snowshoes. I’ve not heard that sound before, the
shattering filing my ears, a peaceful sound with no competition.
Bez is now
following close behind me, his signature-tired spot – he hates being left
behind, but he’s too tired to lead. Instead he nearly causes me to faceplant
when he steps on the back of my snowshoes – also a classic Bezoar move.
We’re both
pleasantly exhausted hitting the parking lot and packing gear away. He’s
already snoozing by the time we cross the pass and head back toward town.
Lucky dog, lucky me. His companionship on all things adventure and outdoors – priceless.
With such a non-spectacular winter thus far in Oregon’s Cascades, when I saw it snowed most of the week and another five inches were expected overnight, I quickly cleared my schedule and packed up my snowshoes, dog and gear to head up to the White River West Sno-Park in Mt. Hood National Forest.
It’s one of my favorite spots on the south mountain – wide open hiking next to a rushing river that flows right from Mt. Hood’s glaciers just above. At around 4,200 feet at the beginning my first breath of fresh mountain air seems heavy coming from sea level Portland, but the view quickly makes me giddy and ready to hike. Bezoar quickly interrupts, he’s barking for me to throw him snowballs.
This sno-park is usually one of the busiest on the mountain, sprouting kids with sleds on hills of various vertical angles, but it’s a weekday and we’re one of only four cars in the huge lot.
And what a treat, today’s visibility shifts from exposed mountain views to near whiteout snowfall – the mountain showing its own variable weather system. We’re following a few snowshoe tracks as we ascend from open space to the trees, winding up toward Timberline lodge. We pass the trackmakers, a retired couple having lunch near an outcrop during a sunburst. Bezoar has already sniffed out the woman’s chicken sandwich. I’m so lucky he’s not a food hound, he’s already back on trail heading higher.
About 1.5 miles up, we get to a huge hill where the tracks stop. We tromp around, sinking almost waist high in the new powder. That’s enough uphill for today. We’re at around 4,800 feet now and the exertion is tiring even if you’re in shape – the fresh air, altitude and incredible mountain view soothing my soul. I feel lucky to be able to reach such beauty within 1 1/2 hours from Portland.
Bezoar again interrupts this thought, deciding he wants more snowballs – actually he’s been wanting it all the way up but I have to ignore him or he strategically places himself in the middle of the trail so you either trip on him or push him out of the way. I throw handfuls of snow in his face – he loves that, trying to catch a bunch until his face is nearly white. He’d do this all day.
The way back we find more tracks through the trees, closer to the hillside and away from the river. Snow covered trees with fresh powder. It’s quiet away from the raging river and I hear only my snowshoes clomping down the trail. Bezoar has finally tired and stays close on my tail – literally he’s stepping on the tails of my snowshoes. I’ve already face planted once. He licks my face, concerned, but continues to trail me close all the way back.
He immediately falls asleep on his bed once the car shuts and we’re heading back to the city.
