Arrived Exhausted, Woke Up in Paradise

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This trip had a special significance for me: visiting the National Park of American Samoa would complete my goal of visiting all 63 U.S. national parks. That milestone was the underlying reason for the journey and reaching this final park would not simply add another destination to the list. It would complete a long running quest that has taken me across the country and into so many truly remarkable places.

Our adventure began in Portland where we spent the night at the Radisson near the airport rather than risk an early morning drive to the airport from Salem ( where we would be picking up my youngest daughter Bernadette) for our 10:00 a.m. flight to American Samoa, with a plane change in Hawaii. Before we could even leave Portland, a before photo was clearly necessary. True to form my oldest daughter Tasia was already full of adventure and had no intention of waiting until we reached an actual beach to get in character. So for the photo, she donned her snorkel and mask. So , with Tasia ready for the South Pacific before we even left Oregon, our trip officially began.

The flights to American Samoa were surprisingly uneventful. We whiled away the nearly 12 hours of flight time with movies, reading, and eating very poor quality airplane food. One of the biggest challenges in this tech savvy family was keeping all of our watches, iPads, and iPhones charged. The three hour layover in Honolulu went quickly and soon we were on the final leg of the trip to American Samoa.

We arrived in American Samoa around 9:00PM. and that is when the real adventure began. Retrieving our luggage turned out to be a chaotic and surprisingly challenging affair. It was a madhouse. Many of the passengers arriving from Honolulu were native Samoans, and it appeared that a trip to Honolulu involved stocking up on products either for their own use or to sell back home. Everyone seemed to be waiting for multiple items such as enormous tubs (the favorite was a black tub with a yellow lid) , assorted packages and boxes. The luggage carts multiplied, the waiting area became completely jam-packed, and the bags emerged from the conveyor at what seemed to be a snails pace. We stood in the rear watching the mountain of luggage slowly make its way into the terminal wondering when our bags would finally appear. At last our meager little duffles emerged from the chaos. Compared with some of the enormous tubs and multiple suitcases, our luggage looked almost embarrassingly modest.

Of course, before we headed off to our hotels we still had to make it through immigration. Since unlike most of the others at the conveyor belt we were only waiting for one item each and managed to be amongst the first to go through the entry process, which went quickly and smoothly. Once on the other side we were met by the driver from Sadie’s by the Sea Hotel who loaded us into the hotel’s transportation van. We settled ourselves in and waited…and waited…and waited for the other passengers to arrive.

The drive from the airport didn’t initially give me much of an impression of what this tropical island would be like. The first part felt surprisingly industrial and somewhat run down , not at all like the lush pacific setting I had been expecting! Eventually however we reached the bay, and the scenery began to change. I was particularly puzzled by a row of dead tree trunks painted white stretching along the bay, each bearing a tattered small American flag. I have not been able to discern what that was about and have filed it away as one of the mysteries of American Samoa.

By the time we pulled into Sadie’s it was 11:30 PM. In searching for lodgings I found few lodging options as tourism is a very small part of the economy because of federal cabotage laws and the strong emphasis on Samoan cultures and the preference for slow, community centered development over resort style growth. This was a big part of the appeal for us and if we wanted to be located on the water there were scant options.

Our best choice for lodging was Sadie’s by the Sea. I knew Sadie’s was a quaint old motel from the online photos but it appeared to have been given a make over. The decor reminded me of the mid-century tropical motels on US 41 in Florida, with retro touches, sage green accents, creamy walls, wood-fluted panels and well worn carpet. It was surprisingly cozy. However no amount of decorating could completely disguise the fact that Sadie’s had been around for a while. It was definitely lived-in and well worn but somehow that became part of its charm. If I had to describe it, I’d use word like quirky, comfortable, tropical, and full of character and personality though it certainly wasn’t luxury and pretentious was definitely not going to be one of its problems. By the time I crawled into bed and turned out the light it was 2:00am.

I woke up about 6:00am the following morning — our first on Tutuila and stepped out onto the balcony. From the balcony, I experienced the soft early light of morning. Above the harbor clouds in shades of blue, gray and gold drifted across the sky. Beyond was a row of rugged peaks which appeared to be rising dramatically from the water. Palm trees were swaying around the pool. The bay shimmered with the first hint of sunrise. This was a pretty spectacular welcome.

After all the planning, packing and long journey from Medford OR I was feeling wonderfully happy. We actually had finally made it. Though still travel weary I stood there knowing that many adventures of hiking and snorkeling awaited and the trip was finally beginning

One Last Ascent and Then a Soak.

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It was exquisite to wake up in a luxurious bed in my teeny-tiny room at Timberline Lodge. After five night of tenting the bed felt absolutely palatial. I had no specific hiking agenda for the day, although I had considered getting in the car and heading down to hike the seven mile Ramona Falls  Trail. The for once wisdom got the better of me.  Why in the world would I leave this beautiful setting to exhaust myself on another long hike when I could find something much similar right here. So after a leisurely breakfast in my room, I decided to head up to the PCT junction and head south, rather than north as I had the day before.

As I was making my way up the trail, I noticed that the smoke seemed to be moving toward Mt. Hood. I began to worry that it might soon envelop the mountain and when I took the ski lift up the mountain later in the day, the views would be totally obscured. After about a half mile I turned around, retrieved my wallet, and headed toward the Magic Mile Ski Lift. This was actually part of my intended plan for later in the day, riding from the Lodge at 6000 feet to the unloading area at 7000 feet.

Once my feet were back on solid ground after being suspended on the chair lift seat, I had a few choices.  The first was not negotiable: I could eventually take the chairlift back down and not walk the two mile road down. I could wander around a while and then ride down, but there wasn’t much to wander around for: no gift shops, no restaurants, very thin air, though a very impressive view. 

And then, as you might have guessed, I decided 7000 feet wasn’t high enough. There was the summit of Mount Hood right in front of me. Why not hike just a little bit farther up? Of course I had no idea the summit was nearly a vertical mile above me.

Determined again to get a hike in and gain some more elevation, I spotted a trail – or what passed for one in my mind, heading upward from the chair lift so I started climbing. For a brief few minutes it seemed entirely reasonable. Then the terrain became increasingly perilous and the trail less distinct. At times the soil was loose, the rocks were not particularly stable and often a step forward involved a slide backwards. I managed perhaps about another one-third of a mile before the precariousness of the whole endeavor finally penetrated my brain and this time I actually listen to my anxious gut as well. So I perched on a rock and took some time to experience the view.

And then came the least “glamorous part” of getting back down.  I began the descent picking my way through the sliding sand and loose rock wondering briefly how I convinced myself that going up had been a good idea in the first place.  I wasn’t particularly surprised to discover that no one else appeared to be following this particular urge to get closer to the top of the mountain.

Reflecting back on this adventure riding down on the lift , I felt pretty good about the decision.  I hadn’t made it very far, but I had made it farther than any sensible person would have made it and I did manage to acknowledge the difference between challenging myself and tempting fate.

After my foolhardy climb, I decided it was definitely time to try out the swimming pool and hot tub after what I have been putting my body through the last few day. So after a break and lunch I headed over to the pool deck. It was an unbelievable treat — and probably one of the loveliest pools I have swum in, in a long time. Perfect temperature and no hint of a chemical smell that usually accompanies a disinfected swimming pool. The hot tub was equally wonderful: just the right temperature. After a long swim and soak I was ready to take on the rest of the evening.

For dinner I chose the not-so-pricy Ram’s Head Bar. As an early bird, I managed to snag the best seat in the house.  I have learned the hard way that unless you actually ask for what you want—particularly as a single woman dining alone – you will not get it but be seated in a less desirable location. So I asked specifically for the center table overlooking Mount Hood.  And I got it.

The choices were certainly more reasonable that in the Cascade Dining room and I settled on a gourmet grilled cheese with avocado dressing. I began to suspect though that the cook had interpreted my request as a blackened grilled cheese…considerably well done. I’m not shy about complaining when something isn’t right, but at this point I decided I would settle in and enjoy the evening rather than create a “take this back to the kitchen and bring me another one “ situation. I was perfectly happy sitting there with my view of Mt. Hood. After all I had survived unstable rocks, a questionable mountain ascent, and a chair lift. A slightly over-toasted grilled cheese didn’t seem worth making an issue. After dinner I headed outside to check on the fire.  It continued to rage in the valley, the smoke spreading across the landscape. Another fire was flaring in the south. 

I was feeling sad that this was my last night at Timberline. I was grateful for the opportunity to experience this incredible historic lodge, for the surrounding mountains and for this whole Oregon hiking adventure had turned out to such a memorable one. There was the ever present smoke from Oregon fires, the choice to hike a trail called Misery Ridge , the grueling trudge through lava fields, camping in a forest dungeon, my ill-advised attempt to head further up Mt. Hood…But there was also spectacular mountain views, two luxurious night at Timberline Lodge, quiet nights camping in the forest and the satisfaction that at 82 I could still head out on my own and have one hell of a great adventure.

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.