I Had Better Watch My Reputation

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I woke up the morning of the sixth day eager to break camp and head back up to Mt. Hood and Timberline Lodge. I made short work of breaking camp. Since most of what I had been camping with would need to be cleaned once I got home, there seemed little point in carefully folding and packing everything as I normally would. I pretty much stuffed it all in my car and called that good enough! I still love camping and undoubtedly will do more of it, but I think I have established one important criterion for future trips: no more forest dungeons!

Once everything was packed, I headed out for my hike of the day. I knew I would not be able to get into the Lodge until mid-afternoon, so I had plenty of time. And don’t be shocked — I had chosen another easy hike: the Trillium Lake Trail. I was no longer looking for a hike that would prove my character. I had proved my character several times already and frankly my character was exhausted.

When I got close to the park entrance however I encountered a tent to collect fees for Trillium Lake.  I got into  a verbal altercation with the fee collectors because I was convinced that, as a Golden Age passport holder, I should not have to pay anything extra. This was National Forest Land, after all and I assumed my pass covered tit.  I proceeded to ask the fee collector just what they would do if I drove on ahead and did not pay the fee. But I knew I had lost the battle and  I soon relented and ponied up the fee. I was however so tempted to see what would happen if I did cruise on in, especially since there was a long line of cars now behind me waiting to pony up their fee.

I eventually discovered that the Forest Service and National Park Service sometimes contract with private concessionaires to operate certain facilities and collect fees.

Once I got over being mad about it, I cautiously enjoyed the hike. Cautiously because I was beginning to worry that these easy drama-free hikes were becoming a habit. I could not let that continue. After all, I had a reputation of questionable judgement to maintain that I had work so hard on this trip to establish.

The trail was relatively level, with wonderful views of Mt. Hood, boardwalks crossing wetlands, and compact gravel sections along the shores of this beautiful lake. The rational self thought that this is just what I need but my inner skeptic wasn’t so sure. It was akin to a stroll in the park rather than a hike in the wilderness. There were families out walking, individual fishermen casting their lines, picnickers enjoying the shoreline, and one or two brave paddle-boarders venturing out onto what I assumed was extremely chilly water.

At what I thought was the end of the trail I arrived at a familiar dock area and headed off to find my car. Of course the car was nowhere in sight. Alas, another opportunity to test my not-very-astute navigational skills. I wandered around in circles for a while, trying to look like I knew exactly where I was headed. Eventually I came across another Y in the road and I followed it. Lo and behold, there was another identical dock and with minimal searching I found the car. This whole episode is laughable. Apparently even an easy hike can turn in to an adventure when one’s sense of direction was questionable.

Satisfied with my Trillium  Lake outing, I headed up to Timberline. It was around noon and my room would not be ready until about 1:30. But hanging out in this beautiful, historic hotel was hardly a hardship.  Before long I was ensconced in my “preferred room.”  Having seen pictures of the room, I basically knew what to expect.  But somehow, once I was actually inside it, I was face to face with how small this room actually was. My friend Lorraine had originally planned to join me, and I found myself laughing at the thought of the two of us trying to maneuver around and tripping over  each other. For some reason I had assumed the room in  this pricy hotel would be total luxury.  Well…not exactly.

This old historic building , of course had no central air or heat. Instead , guest are provided with a pop-in screen for the window and a free standing fan. The walls are beautifully wood paneled but not much in the way of sound proofing. I could clearly hear the conversation of the people in the room next door. Finding enough outlets for all my electronic devices was another challenge. Somewhere in the room I was sure there was an outlet behind a piece of furniture which I couldn’t move. All these tech gadgets would now have to take turns .

But the bed was luxurious and I LOVED every bit of it. After five nights of sleeping on a cot in my tent, I was probably predisposed to find most any real bed luxurious. But still it did seem to achieve a level of luxury I hadn’t experience in a long time and now was the most important feature in the room. I parked my self on that bed and enjoyed a quiet afternoon.

Yes, you heard that right: a quiet afternoon. No packing, no hiking uphill, no getting lost. Just me, the bed and a book.

After five nights of camping, I had decided I deserved a little pampering so I had made a reservation for dinner in the main dining room and it turned out to be quite an lovely experience. The setting, the food, and the service were all wonderful. The prices were another matter. With the least expensive entrees in the  $50.00 range, it was a serious departure from my camping meals which typically are all dehydrated backpacker fare –  just add water.  But after five nights of cots, camp food, and forest dungeons I decided it was a splurge worth making. I had an extremely solicitous waiter, a delicious meal, and only minor regrets about a one hundred dollars plus meal (for one). 

After dinner I went back outside to see what was happening with the fires. They were definitely in full swing with smoke flooding the valleys to the east creating a haze ominous landscape. But when I turned and looked south it was an entirely different world. The air was clear, the mountains stretched out layer upon layer. I was reminded that despite the comfort and history surrounding me  at Timberline Lodge, the wildfires were still very much a factor to be considered.  I had spent the day moving from a dark campsites to an historic lodge, from one dock to another, from an argument about a small inconsequential fee to a very expensive dinner. But I reminded myself that something far more serious was taking place out east. The fires offered smoke, uncertainty, and a reminder that nature still is in charge and has the final word.

What Normal People Call a Vacation

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I awoke on day five with a very modest agenda: drive up to Timberline Lodge, get the lay of the land,  and try to determine whether the wildfires were going to interfere with this chapter of my Mt. Hood adventure — or perhaps more importantly would I have to abandon my beloved “forest dungeon.”

The wildfires were a constant back drop to the trip.  Every day brought another question. Where is the Grasshopper fire now? Which way is the wind blowing?  Was the area going to be evacuated as it is 12 miles east of Timberline Lodge in the Mt. Hood Wilderness? Is my campground affected? Clearly not the normal questions I would be asking when planning a vacation day.

As I approached Timberline I discovered this active  fire was still burning steadily sending up plumes of smoke. Thank goodness the wind was keeping it there. The Lodge and the surrounding area were under an alert to be prepared for a possible evacuation and the winds had consistently been blowing east rather than towards the lodge. Clearly no reason to panic I say. But then no one would expect otherwise from me. 

One of the things I basically wanted to do while up there was hike another section of the Pacific Crest Trail.  I had again been thinking about my son Nick and his fiancee heading out from there on the PCT in 2005 and it was a good opportunity to experience more of the trail itself.

Unlike some previous experiences, finding the trail was not in this case a navigational triumph.  There was a sign that essentially said “All Trails This Way.” And then something remarkable happened.  

I had a sane hike!

There were other hikers on the trail, mostly casual day hikers, and naturally I passed every one of them. I definitely did not want anyone to get the impression that I had suddenly become a cautious sensible hiker who had learned from previous experiences. I hadn’t. I still had absolutely no idea what the terrain ahead was going to look like. I simply happened to get lucky.

I hiked north on the PCT for about an hour before turning around at ZIg-Zag Canyon and headed back to the lodge. It was actually a very satisfying little hike and i had completed it with no major orthopedic negotiations. 


But somewhere along the way the thought took hold. Why exactly was I camping in a forest dungeon when I could be staying up here at Timberline Lodge. I deemed this an excellent question. The lodge is historic with its rustic character, massive hand-hewn timbers, carved woodwork, massive stone fireplaces … not the typical feel of a hotel but a grand mountain lodge. From the lodge, the views open across the rugged mountain slope of Mt. Hood and sweeping mountain vistas.

So upon my return from the hike I made what I considered a brilliant decision. I checked to see if there might possibly be a room available for the following night.

There was!

And not just any room. My preferred room was available. By “preferred” of course I mean the least expensive room. At $339.00 a night, it was hardly a bargain, but after several nights of sleeping on a cot, crawling into a tent, and negotiating dirt and tree roots, it certainly seemed like a tremendous value. I took delight in the thought this would be my last night in the forest dungeon.

The campground itself was tucked down a very dark forest road.  It made it feel remote enough to feel isolated bot not remote enough to escape the highway noise. At night when I was hoping for the peaceful sounds of the forest, what I got instead was the steady drone  of truck tires rolling along the highway above. This soundtrack of 18 wheelers was not soothing, or remotely charming .  It was simply annoying especially when I was trying to get to sleep.

But in fairness, the campsite was not that bad. It was spacious. There were no mosquitos or other aggressive members of the insect world and after I resupplied with ice and other necessities, I settled in for a pleasant evening. The only real problem was the ground itself. I had begun to think of the campsite as a “tripping route” thanks to all the roots sticking up everywhere to test my balance and reflexes.

I had a comfortable evening. No drama, no search for shade, no lava, no questionable decisions involving difficult terrain. And that may be why the day felt so strange. It did not feel like a day I normally associate with my vacations. There was no ordeal to conquer, no ridiculous challenge to overcome, no moment when I wondered if I had made a spectacularly bad decision. I simply drove up a mountain, watched a wildfire smoke show, hike a lovely section of the PCT, found a room at Timberline Lodge, and returned to camp.

Perhaps this is what normal people call a vacation. I am not entirely sure I ready for that.

Misery Ridge: What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

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The morning of the fourth day meant breaking camp and heading north towards the  Mt. Hood area where I would be spending the next three night at Still Creek, a Forest Service campground about 7  mile south of Mt. Hood.  It was only going to be a three-hour-and forty-five-minute drive, so naturally I found a way to turn it into an adventure (or perhaps a misadventure). 

I had read about a beautiful Oregon State Park called Smith Rock famous for its dramatic cliffs and rock climbing. Even better, it was just a few miles off the highway I would be traveling and about halfway to my destination. What better way to break up a drive then to stop for lunch and perhaps a short hike as there was no rush to get to the campground.  I had no agenda beyond setting up camp and enjoy a relaxing evening.

Armed with what I considered my excellent research skills, I had decided I might tackle the Misery Loop Trail – perhaps in reverse as it was described as a bit less difficult. You can be assured I skipped over the description of the “easiest” trail and gone directly to the more difficult ones. What caught my attention, of course, were the words “Misery Ridge Trail” and the “Chute, ” both listed among the park’s most difficult trails.

The original plan was called the reverse Misery Ridge Loop, a 3.7 mile route. I would not ascend the Misery Ridge Trail which was described a crowded and quite difficult with trail surface basically loose scree and uneven terrain. But the reward would be spectacular views of the rivers, mountains and surrounding canyons. Once I got to the park, I reconsidered the almost 4 mile hike. The park was not the least bit crowded eliminating the main reason for not doing Misery Ridge. So naturally I revised my thinking: I would climb this difficult section, go slowly and plod my way up, enjoy the views, and carefully pick my way down the easier route.

My confidence began to evaporate quite quickly. The trail was every bit as advertised: gravel, loose scree, sand, switchbacks, and uneven wooden steps holding the trail together. It was also getting hot but since this trail was only .68 of a mile – it would be a more sensible choice versus something longer.

O course I was wrong. I very slowly huffed and puffed my way up this unstable terrain stopping frequently to catch my breath and sip water. I cursed, sweated and actually began to question my judgement. But I was not going to give up. After a little more than an hour and a half I reached the summit.

There was some shade. This immediately became my favorite feature of the summit. I settled down, ate my lunch, drank water and then took in the spectacular views. Briefly the suffering felt justified but soon I decided to head down the backside. And that was, yet again, when my lack of navigational skills went into full relapse. I followed the signs for the Misery Ridge Loop until I reached a junction where I had no idea if I was supposed to go right or left. The signage was confusing and although I had anticipated other hikers, there was hardly another human being around to ask. I encountered only two small groups of hikers during the entire hike. I looked back up at “Monkey Face” the famous 350-foot tall volcanic tuff spire in front of me. It’s premier destination for advanced rock climbers but no rock climbers today to consult. .

So there I stood at the junction, faced with two choices: forge ahead and hope I was going the right way or turn around and return by the route I knew. Given my notoriously compromised sense of direction and complete absence of anyone to consult, I turned back and started walking the half mile back up hill. Forty five minutes later I was back at the summit.

I began the descent down the same route I had climbed, carefully picking my way back acroos the unstable surface.  Going downhill was not as easy as I hoped it would be and in some ways harder since it would be so easy to skid out on the gravel and sand. But eventually I reached the river, crossed the bridge and headed toward “The Chute.” 

By now I was feeling that the entire excursion had become a fiasco. I had misjudged the distance, misjudged the difficulty, misjudged the route, then turned myself around and added another 45 minutes to the adventure. And now I still had to climb “The Chute, ” the last steep 500 feet of climbing. So much for a “short hike.”

I have to admit I recovered remarkably quickly after an icy cold Diet Pepsi, climbed back in the car and headed toward Mount Hood and my next campground. 

When I pulled into Still Creek, it felt as if I was driving down into a forest dungeon. Towering old growth trees surrounded the campground creating a dark canopy that was a dramatic contrast to the open sun-drenched landscape  I had just left behind.

As I searched for my campsite, I discovered there was only one other camping party in the entire 25 site campground.  There was a water spigot near my campsite but the smelly loo was the equivalent of a city block away.  

I was a little discouraged.  I was surrounded by a dense forest that initially felt gloomy. But I reminded myself that this was going to be a different kind of experience.  Different scenery.  Different hiking.  Different expectations.

I set up camp and everything wet smoothly.  With the campground quiet and remote there wasn’t much going on – which was probably what I needed. I had time to ponder the day’s adventure and couldn’t help but wonder once again about my sanity.  What is it that makes me constantly choose the difficult path.  Why do I need to consistently push myself to the limit?

A few days later once home I came across an article in the newspaper with the rather ominous title ”The Five Deadly Places in Oregon that Tourists Shouldn’t Travel Alone.” You can probable guess what came next. One of the places on the list was Smith Rock with the article sighting many of the very things I had encountered: summer heat, steep switchbacks, limited shade, exposure and loose rock. Everything I had spent four and a half hours negotiating wandering around largely by myself.

Had I read this article before making my choices at Smith Rock, would I have done things differently? I would like to think so. But knowing myself, I’m not entirely convinced. Perhaps I need to find a part of me that suggests a little more caution. But then that might be asking a lot from a woman who sees a trailhead labeled “Misery Ridge” and thinks “I wonder if I can?” and then forges ahead.

But for now I am simple grateful that my many questionable decision had ended with nothing worse than sore feet, some choice words to self, a lot of sweat , and feeding my addiction to icy cold Diet Pepsi.

Repeat: Poor Trail Selection

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Not to be discouraged by the challenges of the previous day of hiking, I headed out for the Three Sisters —Lava Camp Trailhead. My poor planning skills had once again come through for me.  I had secured a permit to hike in the Central Cascades once again, but somehow failed to notice that the trailhead was 75-miles north  — about an hour and forty five minute drive. A minor detail I had chosen to overlook. Most of the route was on highways I had driven routinely on previous visits so a bit disappointing. But then heading out of Three Sisters towards McKenzie Pass, things got considerably more interesting.  

I would be driving Oregon Route 242, the famously scenic and historic McKenzie Highway —a narrow winding two-lane road that climbs dramatically through the Cascades.  There were elevation changes, switchbacks, and plenty of opportunities to test whether my driving skills were as questionable as my trail-planning skills.

My inner reckless-driver persona was immediately on high alert.  At one  point,  I found myself at the tail end of a conga line of cars, all slow-poking there way along the highway. After watching a couple of good passing opportunities ignored by the other drivers, another nice strait stretch finally appeared.  Apparently my inner race-car driver could take it no longer.  I took my opportunity and sailed  on past the entire procession of nine car with plenty of room to pull back in and continued on my way with no further dawdling drivers.   Fortunately traffic was light. 

The road was spectacular and twisted through lush living forest   and then without much warning, into what I dubbed tree skeleton graveyards — vast stands of burned trees stripped of everything but their trunks and branches. In spots young tree were reclaiming the landscape and beyond that the dark lava fields. It was quite eerie, like driving from one forest to another where the trees had died but forgot to lie down.

I did pause for a brief moment, reconsidering several of my more recent questionable choices. But, of course , I had come all this way, and a little denial kicked in— “It can’t be that bad!” What could possibly go wrong? As an 82 year old woman with osteoporosis , I was perhaps not the most obvious candidate for a hike involving loose uneven volcanic rock. One wrong step, a twisted ankle, or an unexpected tumble could turn this anticipated hike into a disaster. But I had my walking stick, good footwear, an most importantly an impressive ability to convince myself that things would work out. So I parked the car, grabbed my walking stick and headed southeast out on the PCT. Even though the lava looked dangerous. I decided to hike it anyway.

The lava did not disappoint. Every step was precarious, and nearly every rock I considered stepping on seemed determine to shift. For about an hour and 30 minutes I carefully picked my way across the lava, concentrating on every foot placement. Was I having fun yet? Eventually I parked myself on an uncomfortable rock with a tiny bit of shade and ate some lunch. Then it was back across the lava for another hour and 30 minutes. It would be a stretch to claim I covered three miles and that I was having an awesome experience. 


When I finally made it back to the car, a volunteer was there at the trailhead with an assortment of snacks and cold drinks.  This would be one of   the “trail angels” I have heard about who do this to support the PCT thru hikers, but made their bounty available to all.  So I eagerly grabbed a Diet Coke, a welcomed reward for negotiating 3 hours of unstable lava.

Right up the road was another famous attraction: the Dee Wright Observatory a stone structure with no other purpose than to offer panoramic views of the surrounding Cascades. I drove the quarter mile up to it, and then in a moment of profound irony, I tripped on the stairs heading up to the observatory and ripped open my right knee, having successfully negotiated 3 mile of wildly unstable lava without falling, only to injure myself by making a brief misjudgment of the height of a step.I did continue up and into the observatory and then it was time to head back to camp.

BUT, since it was still mid-afternoon and not wanting to miss out on anything notable in this area, I decided to drive to the Lava Lands Visitors Center at Newberry National Volcanic Monument. I can’t say that I was yearning to see more lava. Though I don’t intend to visit all of the national monuments as I have the national parks, if I find myself in the area of one I make a point to visit it, and I definitely was not going to miss out on another trail or two. Perhaps the first sane decision I made was to voluntarily take the bus up to Lava Butte. I hiked the Lava Butte Rim Trail which was a 20 minute 1/2 mile loop and then rode back down. The other option would have been to hike the red cinder Lava Butte Road for a 3.5 mile round trip and  I thought I deserved kudos for that current sanity. I was going to head towards the car but I saw a sign for the Trail of the Molten Lava ( a one-mile paved path in full sun on a 90 degree afternoon leading into a lava field ) and I  thought “Well why not?” So I “proudly” added another 1.5 miles to my am mileage which was 3.38 miles.


Why might you ask would someone who had almost wrecked her body negotiating the lava fields of McKenzie Pass decided to walk another trail into a field of lava simply because it was paved? Actually it probably was the only field of lava trail I should have considered hiked in the first place.

Does any of this sound like someone who has a PhD in mental health counseling? Apparently, possessing a PhD in understanding human behavior does not necessarily mean that one understands their own!

Finally at 4:45 I admitted defeat – or perhaps recognized that even I had my limits – and headed back to camp.