A Mountain to the South (June 2009)

 Hello!  This is a continuation of recent "classic" articles written by yours truly in the watermelon days of summer.  I wanted to get them into circulation before I keel over from too much fun.  Little Eva featured in this story is just about to turn 18 and head off to college.  I still remember this trip so clearly.  Life is ridiculous, isn't it?

I'm also sad to tell you that the forests on these ridges are completely dead for many miles.  They were killed in the fires that swept the Northwest two years ago.  It is a land of complete devastation that is still closed to the public.  It will be very different out there.  But of course, Nature rebuilds at a schedule far greater than our own tiny lives.  Those of us alive today will never know the ancient forests that will return to this wasteland. 

Strap on your pack, don't forget the sunscreen...

"A Mountain to the South"

It was just the lovely Eva and I, up on top of the giant's head we now call a mountain. Yes folks, 3 days with a 5 year old in the wilderness. She is becoming a great camper.

We arrived to clouds swirling past, after traversing the usual potholed post apocalyptic forest service snakeroute, climbing nearly 5000' into the abused-but-still-beautiful Clackamas foothills. I fretted about potential snow, but those fears were unfounded, as only a couple tiny patches still sat in sheltered bowls. This is good news for highcountry camp season - it's open!

So we sat for a while, gathered slimy wood for a meager smoky fire as the clouds shuffled past like puffed ghosts. Eva remarked how we were "breathing clouds" and indeed this was literal, as our exhalations slid down the onramp and flew down the misted freeway.

She went to bed, I stayed up for a spell until the clouds came into camp with reinforcements, dropping a cold wet blanket on the camp and filling me with enough spookies to call it a night and hide under the sheets.

After a long cold night, the new day sun broke through, dragging a blue sky behind like a much loved rag doll. Being a student of history, I took the opportunity to revisit 1910 with newly appointed Ranger Petey and myself. We made plans to hike down to Memaloose Lake and pick up our Forest Service horses, freshly watered and rested. Then, to ride to the Cold Springs ranger station. Of course most of the trails have been abandoned 70 years, the ranger station just a dream in some granddad's craw, and the fire lookout a scattered pile of rusted nails and windowpanes melted into unique blobs...but that did not stop the intrepid rangers on their rounds.

We did hike down to the lake, shining gloriously in the new summer sun. The trail up to the peak of S. Fork Mountain is an original forest service trail, constructed around 1900 but probably older than that. It is not officially maintained (as a sign proudly proclaims at the base of the mountain), but it is in excellent condition regardless. We spent the day chopping brush, and even make it back up to the top in spite of frequent whining. It's hard to be little as 1000' in elevation beckons.

Of course the horses were nowhere to be seen, curse the beureacracy. And once on top, we were dismayed to find the trail to the ranger station nearly obliterated with time, a disturbing fate. What remained of the rangers themselves is still a mystery.

The views! Spectacular. One can see many vistas and all local volcanic peaks, as far north as Mt. Rainier and 3 Sisters to the south. At night, the lights of Portland twinkle orange and strange, weird to see littered across the valley as we sit up high among the beargrass and crescent moon.

Nails, however are a very real hazard on this lofty perch. The 1960s were a strange time in our nation's history. Besides the race riots and other colorful adventures already burned into our collective, our penchant for natural resource extraction took a feverhold as many miles of solitary-purpose roads were stabbed into the crumbling highcountry. Historic sites such as backcountry ranger stations and high peak fire lookouts were simply burned to the ground to avoid the bookcost of maintenance. I suppose fire is the great purifier; or at least does a damn good job of rearranging molecules. Even the Indians would seasonally burn their prized hunting grounds and mountain berry fields for their own personal gain. This weird grasping for history seems to create more questions than clarity, but it is an interesting trip to puzzle out how it felt 100 years ago when these magnificent clearcut lands were nothing but miles and miles of ancient wilderness. We are spoilt, the land has been spoiled. But inbetween it's glory in excess as always.

Spending a few days on top of a mountain with just a little one whom I love as much as breath certainly gave me a unique perspective. Although there are moments of pure madness, such as a bottle of OJ dumped all over the camper cabinet and floor, the moments of true love and gentle bliss soaks into consciousness until everything else is swept away in the high wind.