The Day I Turned Around

Karma on the summit of Wind Mountain, overlooking the Columbia River Gorge

Green Point Mountain, Wind Mountain

Time for a platitude.

“It’s the journey, not the destination.”

Such was my motto on my attempt to hike Green Point Mountain.

The first warning sign came ninety minutes into my drive to the Rainy Lake trailhead. As I wound slowly through the narrow mountain road, my GPS offered me an alternate, slower route. I glanced out the window at a rough, unmaintained road that disappeared into the trees.

“That doesn’t bode well,” I said to Karma.

Beautiful views of Mt. Hood before everything went to hell

From there, my train of thought was as follows:

I’m losing cell signal. I hope I can find my way back if the GPS doesn’t pick up.

Road’s still paved. Easy enough to follow.

Oo, squirrels! Fearless squirrels. That’s right, squirrel. Keep chomping on that nut while I drive by a whole six inches away. You go, squirrel.

Well, that pavement ended suddenly. This gravel road ain’t so bad, though.

Besides, it’s only six miles from the reservoir to the trailhead. I can walk six miles if I need to call AAA. Put that plus membership to good use. That’s doable.

Maybe I should pick up a GPS.

I don’t know how to fix a flat. How can I not know how to fix a flat? Irresponsible.

Cell signal’s stronger again. I should be fine.

I should learn how to fix a flat.

Man, I’m such a worrywort. It’s all good. Five miles out from the trailhead and I still have cell reception and a paved road. Home free.

That is the biggest goddamn dandelion I’ve ever seen.

Is that a butterfly mating dance?

Um, the gravel is gone and now all I’m driving on is big jagged rocks.

I really, really need to learn how to fix a flat.

We’re good.

...are we good? Just drive slowly and I should be fine, right?

I’m going to break the car.

Slow.

Oh my god I’m really going to break the car stop abort bad idea don’t do this.

I let the car roll to a stop and surveyed my surroundings with some consternation. This was no gravel road anymore. This was a road built out of rocks, pure and simple. As far as the eye could see, nothing but large, uneven rocks, and I had four miles left to go.

The trailhead seemed so close I could taste it, and yet so far away. I had been waiting for weeks to hike Green Point Mountain. What were my options? I could keep going, see if the road got any smoother. Given the struggle it had taken to get the car this far, however, even another half a mile of this would present a significant obstacle to drive back over. This road required a high clearance vehicle, and I was driving anything but: my husband and I had scraped the bumper of this car on our very first test drive, when we bought it used off a German lady on Craigslist.

I could park the car and walk the four remaining miles to the trailhead. It would be doable, but time-consuming. Too time-consuming for a hike that would go on another eight miles after the trailhead and was located almost two hours’ drive from my house. How would Karma fare, walking over these rocks for miles? Besides, who knew what trouble I’d be inviting if I just left the car at the side of the road.

The third option, disappointing in the extreme, was to find a wider stretch of road and turn around.

As a solo hiker responsible for my dog as well as myself, my number one rule is to not be an idiot. I decided to turn around.

Just at that moment, a Jeep appeared ahead of me on the single-lane road. I had already decided, but the choice was made for me anyway: I had to go back. Only now, I didn’t have the luxury of finding a wide spot to turn around. I threw the car in reverse and began the bumpy, agonizing drive backwards to the last turnaround.

I thought about rolling down the window and asking the inhabitants of the Jeep whether it was possible to make it to the trailhead in my sedan, but it turned out that driving on a curved, rocky road half a mile in reverse takes up a significant amount of mental energy, and they were driving past before I realized it. I caught their incredulous looks as they passed me, however, and those told me all I needed to know.

My cell phone service wavered in and out, but I managed to do a quick online search on one of the upswings. Wind Mountain was less than forty-five minutes away, on the Washington side of the Gorge. It was on my to-hike list, but had been continually pushed aside in favor of other hikes that were either longer or closer to home. This seemed as good a time as any to cross it off the list. I set off in search of my new goal.

Through all of this, Karma didn’t make a peep. He’s the perfect driving companion: the moment I put him in the car and he sees our hiking gear, he curls up in his crate and falls asleep. He only popped his head up once, when I pulled over and stopped the car to take a picture of that big goddamn dandelion because really, what was stopping me? Once we established that we were not at our destination, he settled down again without fuss.

And there, I thought, the story would end. (Obviously, the way to salvage a failed hike is to blog about it. To distract myself from my disappointment, I had flipped over my useless trail guide printout and was taking notes on the back that included the illuminating phrase, “dandelion big!”) The failed attempt at Green Point Mountain, the short but successful ascent of Wind Mountain, ta-da, the end. I was wrong.

Here, have a cute photo of Karma on a log to break up this wall of text

 After crossing into Washington, driving along the scenic Columbia River for a time, and finally turning onto a forest road, I came to a fork. One road was blocked off with a bright gate and a “Private Property, Stay Out!” sign, so I turned onto the other road and began to climb what appeared to be an old logging road. Very quickly, the road became steep and rough.

Uh-oh.

I looked at my GPS. It confirmed that I was on the wrong road, but I didn’t know what to do: the route it gave me appeared to go straight through the private property.

I was cursed, it was the only explanation. Almost three hours into my trip and no hike in sight. Tunnel Lake had looked nice, even if it was right by the freeway. We could go back to Tunnel Lake. Maybe Tunnel Lake would still be a fun afternoon. The first step, whatever I chose to do, was to turn around.

I resumed the climb up the logging road. And stopped. It was twisty and turny and narrow, bordered on one side by a steep hill going up and on the other by a steep hill going down. Most importantly, it did not appear to get any wider, as far as I could tell. If I kept climbing and found myself unable to turn around, I would just be making the descent even harder.

I let out a big, self-pitying sigh. And then, for the second time that day, I started backing the car down a rough, curvy road. Only this time, I didn’t have to put it in reverse, because the road was so steep that even on drive, it rolled backwards easily. I will say, all the practice was paying off: despite the rise in my heart rate, the reversal went more smoothly this time. Still, as soon as the road widened ever so slightly, I did a nine-point K-turn and resumed driving like a normal person.

I sat for quite a while at the entrance to the private property. Thankfully no one came out with a shotgun to shoo me away. Finally, a search on my phone showed me that the trailhead could be reached another way, by going further down the freeway and doubling back.

Fifteen minutes later, I reached the unmarked trailhead to Wind Mountain. An hour later, after a fairly steep climb and several rousing verses of the classic, “Don’t trip mommy or she’ll fall down the mountain and break her neck and you’ll never get dinner again you realize this don’t you,” Karma and I stood on the summit of Wind Mountain, buffeted by strong gusts of wind (surprise).

Karma poses in front of the spirit quest formations

Eventually, we made our way around to the talus slope on the opposite side of the summit, where we were sheltered from the wind and silence reigned. I settled back on the stones, one arm around Karma, conscious that this had been a site for spirit quests in years past. Some of the rock formations crafted by generations of Native American youth still surrounded us, and the gentle circles soothed me. However long my journey here today had felt, their journeys had been much longer.

Whatever their journeys were like, I hope their destinations included a big goddamn dandelion.

See? It was a really big dandelion!

Mountain Puppies

Mt. Hood from the summit of Tom Dick and Harry Mountain

Tom Dick and Harry Mountain

We encountered the first puppy less than half a mile onto the Mirror Lake trail. His owner and I shared a glance as Karma and I drew alongside her. Simultaneously our gazes dropped to the puppies, and mutual amicable disinterest transformed.

“He’s so short!” she cooed at Karma, while I dropped to one knee by her puppy and marveled, “He’s so soft.” I scratched underneath his ear and he wiggled up against my shin, a small package of pure excitement wrapped up in silky black and white. “How old?”

“Roscoe’s three months,” she said. I squealed and gave his rolls of puppy skin an extra smush. “Yours?”

“Karma’s two years old. Guess he’s the old man here.”

Karma certainly didn’t act the old man, however. Having determined that the woman wasn’t going to feed him, he turned his attention to Roscoe, who immediately forsook my puppy massage. Thus we began the dance of entanglement known well to all dog owners, dropping and reclaiming leashes with an efficiency approaching grace.

We parted when Roscoe got particularly excited and started to run down the trail. Karma took advantage of the break to claim ownership of several logs and small shrubs. While he sniffed and peed and sniffed again, their figures grew small ahead of us.

The energy of the puppy, however, comes in bursts, and Karma, being a herding dog, can be very motivated when his pack gets separated. Soon enough we were on their heels again. For a time, I slowed our pace, knowing that Karma’s dedication to walking in a straight line would fade the moment we passed them.

The arrangement was working quite well until Roscoe realized that his new friend was back. His owner and I attempted to keep to our respective paces, me holding Karma back, she tugging Roscoe along as he kept his head craned to look at Karma. When Roscoe walked straight into a tree he hadn’t seen, however, we realized the dogs might need some proper playtime. His owner glanced up and down the switchbacked trail, and after ascertaining that there were no other hikers around to bother, unclipped Roscoe’s leash.

What followed was an uncoordinated and joyous mess of long puppy limbs and stubby corgi legs. Karma adopted his play face, a demonic baring of teeth that nonetheless remain unfailingly gentle, rearing up on his hind legs to make up for the height difference. Roscoe ran in circles with his tongue flying like a banner and flopped on his back in the dirt to show off his smooth pink puppy belly. A faint haze of dust rose around us.

One moment, Roscoe was doing somersaults on the trail; the next, he was out of energy and curled up contentedly on his owner’s shoes. Karma lost interest just as quickly, and our hike continued.

Karma takes a breather while I snap some photos

Although the voices of other hikers floated to us on the breeze, we ran into just one other couple on the Mirror Lake trail, a middle-aged couple who had stopped to catch their breath. The husband, red-faced and a little paunchy, was slumped against a tree when we reached them, but his eyes brightened when he saw Karma’s expectant face angled up at his.

“The queen’s dog!” he exclaimed, and heaved himself off the supporting tree to ruffle Karma’s fur. Despite his obvious disappointment that the proffered hand proved to be devoid of food, Karma accepted the affection before moving onward.

Mirror Lake was as beautiful as I expected, and as crowded. We pushed quickly past the piercing shouts of children and teenagers to our goal, the Tom Dick and Harry Mountain trail. Immediately, solitude embraced us. It was an entirely different world from the Mirror Lake trail that had led us here. I was captivated by the quaint forest path, the exorbitant wildflower displays in cream and hot pink and butter yellow, the arresting glimpses of Mt. Hood.

Wildflowers along the trail

 Just below the summit, we ran into another puppy. This one was five months old, a yellow lab who dwarfed Karma in stature and energy. They circled, sniffing, and the lab did a little playful prance.

“Don’t smother him!” his owner exclaimed as he gave the leash a tug, concerned by how his dog was looming over Karma. “I’m sorry, I know little dogs hate when he gets smothering.”

“Karma’s pretty used to it,” I reassured him. Indeed, while Karma didn’t have enough energy to play back, he was offering the lab his adoring corgi smile, tongue lolling out of his mouth like a faucet.

The owner’s family came around a bend and smiled as they saw the two dogs. They must have heard the conversation, for the son, a bright boy of seven or eight, eagerly offered, “Don’t worry, he’s very friendly! He won’t hurt anyone.” His father placed a fond hand on his shoulder. Then his face fell as the boy continued, as cheery as before, “Except when he bites me.”

“He’s getting better about it,” the mother hastily interjected. “Just got a little mouthy while teething. It’s never hard--he’s learning how to play.”

I laughed, appreciative of their concern over such an obviously good-natured puppy. I reached down to give him a good scratch behind the ears. “Karma’s a herding breed, so when he was little he kept trying to herd us. Lots of sharp puppy nips to the ankles. Took a while to break him of that, I’ll tell you.”

They smiled in relief. Their son, oblivious to the momentary distress he had caused, was already skipping down the trail, so we bid each other good hikes and went our separate ways.

By now, I could see the rocky edge of the summit. This was the realm of the fluffy cream wildflowers that had guided me the whole hike. No longer relegated to the side of the trail, they burst forth in fields of swaying blooms that took my breath away. And yet, if I thought these views were stunning, they proved to be nothing compared to the view from the top.

Mt. Hood, in all its glory. Even with its peak ringed by clouds, it was a humbling sight. I gaped. Then, slowly, like a frame slowly coming into focus, I noticed the snowy peak of Mt. Adams hiding in the distance. Timberline Lodge below me, where my husband and I had attempted to hike to Zigzag Canyon the month before and been thwarted by snow. There would’ve been no such impediments today: the lodge was clear, and the trees surrounding it were a deep, dark green, untouched by any white freckles of snow.

Mirror Lake was far below us now, a smooth solitary gem suspended in the texture of the forest. From this height, I could erase the summer crowds and imagine it as a tranquil refuge.

Mt. Hood and Mirror Lake

 Only then did I realize I was standing right next to yet another dog. This one was wearing a cargo vest, and sniffed Karma with the same friendly exhaustion he offered her. Her owners beamed up at me from the rock slab they were lying against.

“Such short legs!” the woman said.

“I’m impressed he made it up here,” the man added. “Maggie was really struggling!”

As if to prove his point, Maggie gave Karma one last sniff and then curled up in the shade, eyeing her owners’ trail mix wistfully.

“Karma’s getting to be a pretty experienced hiker,” I offered. “Although we did Kings Mountain last week and that just about killed both of us. Way too hot and humid. So I guess we’ve got a ways to go.”

“During the heat wave? Wow. We tried to come up here but it was just too hot. We turned around.”

“I probably should’ve...” I admitted, and we chuckled.

Looking around, there were quite a few of us on the summit. A man was curled up on a wide rock, seemingly napping. A group of young men were venturing out along a rocky ridge to the next summit. I briefly considered it, then cut the idea short. Aldrich Butte had been quite enough of that for me. My heart was still soaring from the amazing views, and I was content to sit and enjoy them.

After a moment’s contemplation, I found a large, angled slab of rock that would provide Karma with some shade, and slung my backpack down. With a deep sigh of contentment, I settled back against the rock. I had chosen the least populated space on the summit, which meant I was the only person there not facing Mt. Hood. Instead, forests rippled below me. As a child, I’d had a dark green carpet in my bedroom. I’d spend hours cross-legged on that carpet, looking down with eyes slightly unfocused, pretending I was a bird or a giant looking down on forests below. The summit of Tom Dick and Harry seemed like my childhood fantasy made real. I squinted at the horizon: yet another snow-covered peak stood watchful in the distance.

Karma looks out at Mt. Jefferson

“Hey, do you know which mountain that is?” I called out to the couple.

“We were trying to figure that out,” the man called back. “I think it’s Mt. Adams.”

“I was thinking maybe Mt. Bachelor,” added the woman. “It is south of us.”

“I think Mt. Bachelor’s too far away. But I’m not sure.”

A pregnant pause.

“Well, then I don’t feel so bad that I don’t know,” I finally said. We all laughed, none the wiser for our idle speculation. Later, I looked it up. Turns out we weren’t even close. It was Mt. Jefferson.

The rock at my back was warmed pleasantly from the sun, and a gentle breeze broke the summer heat. I found myself wishing I could just stay there. Curl up and take a nap like that other guy. Watch the sunset, and then the sunrise. Karma had climbed up onto the rock slab with me and lain down by my head. It’s rare that he lets us stop and truly savor a view. He always rushes off to the next smell, the next rustle in the leaves, the next scurrying animal. I catch my moments of fun because of him, my moments of peace despite him.

Now, however, he was still, and the fact he wasn’t panting in the shade told me it wasn’t just exhaustion. He was as content as I was, on this little perfect summit. A chipmunk darted among the rocks and eventually perched near us, barely an arm’s length away. It watched Karma fearlessly, and Karma, for his part, cocked his head and watched the chipmunk back. I tightened my grip on his leash, but there was no need. Two tiny noses twitched at each other; two pairs of ears stood straight. Neither made a move towards the other. The chipmunk disappeared, and reappeared at the edge of the summit, as if watching the view with us. Then it disappeared over the edge and Karma relaxed, his head tucking into the curve of my neck.

Almost an hour passed, and seemed like no time at all. Our summit group had rearranged; I heard snatches of Russian behind me, and the young men had come and gone. The couple with the dog had moved further away at one point, but now they got up to leave. They stopped by my rock on their way out.

“There’s a bench down there,” they told me. “You should check it out. The view’s magnificent.”

I glanced at my watch. I had to get back for dinner soon anyway. I slid my backpack on again and untangled myself from Karma. We picked our way over the broken rocks in the direction they’d pointed. Gently curved slabs of rock had been carefully arranged in what did amount to a crude and surprisingly comfortable bench.

They were right. The view was magnificent.

A mountain, a puppy, a rock cairn (built by others, destroyed by Karma)

Wrong Turns

Table Mountain from the Two Chiefs Trail

Two Chiefs Trail

There’s a beauty to getting lost.

That may be an obvious statement, made often in various contexts. However, as a new, often solo, female hiker, making a wrong turn and getting lost was a source of worry in my early hikes. Karma isn't exactly the tracking type. On our hikes, what he most resembles is a police car slowing traffic, zigzagging across the highway. Except this police car likes to zigzag backwards as well as forwards, and has to stop and pee on everything. Nor is he the guard dog type. While he could certainly terrify a few ankles, his love is for sale for a quality treat.

Let’s be honest, I’m no great survivalist either. My black belt husband and some pepper spray from a former employer ensure I’m not completely unprepared to defend us. My pack, while light, carries enough that I’m confident I could survive a night out (although not happily, and not comfortably) if I were grounded by injury or circumstance. I try to be smart: I leave a trip plan with my husband and stick to it, I review maps beforehand, I follow well-worn paths, I print out my guide, and I check in with both it and my GPS frequently.

Despite all these precautions, it turns out it’s actually quite easy for a directionally-challenged woman and her distractable puppy to get lost.

The first time I got lost, I was looking for the Two Chiefs Trail. It was my first hike in the Aldrich Butte area, and both my hikers guide and my GPS made the trail seem incredibly simple. Maybe a little more straightforward of a hike than I would’ve wanted; it was the only trail my GPS showed at all, straight from the trailhead to Greenleaf Stream. I figured I could focus on building up Karma’s stamina with the mileage. Couldn’t miss it.

So, I missed it.

Barely out of the trailhead, I reached a fork in the trail that my guide didn’t mention and my GPS didn’t show. From there, I started climbing a mountain of ever-increasing doubt about where I was going. I thought I was saved when I ran into another couple.

(That’s one way for me to put it. It would be more accurate for me to say they came upon me while I was doing an interpretive spider dance at another fork in the trail. I did mention I’m not much of a survivalist.)

They kindly pretended not to have noticed my spastic shrieking fit. Then they relieved me of any hope their appearance had kindled when their introduction was, “We’re completely lost. How do we get to Table Mountain?”

All I can say is, you know you’re desperate when you’re asking the crazy spider lady.

Pretty forest. Wrong trail.

Having quickly established that they were completely useless to me, and I to them, we leapfrogged amicably along the trail for another couple of miles. I’d stop to indulge the puppy, they’d get ahead; they’d stop to consult their map, Karma would decide it was time to sprint ahead of them.

Every time our paths crossed, we’d share a chuckle and update each other on our lack of progress figuring out where our respective trails were. Soon, I was actually counting on the next time I’d pass them. Especially as the “moderate” rated trail was turning out to be steeper than expected, and I was starting to feel it. A break to laugh and joke would be nice.

“See you in a few minutes!” I called out with a jaunty wave as I stopped to let Karma investigate a flower.

Five minutes later, my GPS finally showed me quite clearly that I wasn’t on the Two Chiefs Trail after all, but the Pacific Crest Trail, which I hadn’t even realized I’d encountered. Karma and I did an abrupt about-face and started back down the trail, my muttered cursing flying behind us. Five minutes after that, I realized we weren’t on the Pacific Crest Trail, either. In fact, I had no idea what trail I was on, just that it had very few turn-offs and therefore suggested to me that only an impressive level of ineptitude could have gotten me this far.

A runner slowed as he passed us, chuckling over Karma’s short legs. “Did he make it all the way to the top?” he exclaimed.

The top? Of what? My pride was feeling quite wounded; I didn’t ask. I was willing to admit we were on the wrong trail, but not that I didn’t even know what bluff, hill, or mountain we had just been climbing.

“Nope, made a wrong turn. I’m actually looking for the Two Chiefs Trail, so I just had us turn around.”

“The what?”

This bodes well, I thought.

“Two Chiefs Trail.”

“Where is that?”

“...I don’t know.” (Obviously.)

The runner saw that the conversation was deteriorating. “Have a nice hike!” he said, picking up speed again. He waved, I flashed a smile, and as soon as he was out of earshot I went back to swearing.

It took me two more hikes in this area to realize I’d inadvertently started hiking Table Mountain, which my hikers guide points out climbs 700 feet in a half-mile--the very half-mile I had spent on it. I didn’t feel so bad about my huffing and puffing once I figured that out. And hey, at least I accidentally helped this couple along to their destination. I hope they appreciated it.

The problem was, the Two Chiefs Trail was the first trail I tried to hike on a time limit. I couldn’t afford to waste a lot of time exploring my options. I had to be back for dinner with a friend of my husband’s I was meeting for the first time, and I was now going to be cutting it very close. And I hadn’t even reached any forks in the trail. In fact, I was getting the sinking feeling that I was going to have to backtrack all the way to the trailhead in order to find the right path, if in fact I found it at all.

I’d passed a lake on my drive in. Maybe I could slink back there and work on Karma’s swimming, save this whole “hiking” idea for when I became a functional adult.

I was just about ready to give up when I reached the series of forks that had led me so astray before. I had picked up more about the area than I’d realized from my lost wanderings. GPS and printed hiking guide in hand, I could suddenly see that by misunderstanding which fork I was at, I had done the complete opposite of what the instructions said.

While my lightbulb was going off, Karma was having a little lightbulb moment of his own. I felt a little tug on the leash just in time and jerked him away right as he dove for a smear of bird poop.

“No time for war paint!” I chastised as we took off down the right trail, Karma sparing a regretful look behind us.

I knew I couldn’t do the whole trail, I didn’t have time. There had been a picture in the hikers guide of the view looking up at Table Mountain from the moss-covered scree fields below. That image had inspired me to choose this hike; that was my new destination. I’d never failed to complete a hike before, but I’d just have to content myself with coming back another time. I knew the area now.

The thing was, I didn’t actually know where on the trail the scree fields were. My best guess, based on my sparsely-labeled GPS, was that they were still close to the end. I’d have to take advantage of every minute I had. We were on a flat stretch now; I sped up our pace.

I barely remember the trail after that. I remember my watch and my GPS much more. I felt guilty about that, even at the time. Hiking is my escape, my salve. This hike was turning into more of a source of stress than a stress relief. And yet, I had set out that morning yearning for those mountain cliffs looming over the open field. The forest was starting to bore me. If I didn’t reach that view, I knew I’d drive away feeling dissatisfied.

While I speed-walked along the path, Karma now off-leash so he could explore without slowing me down, I calculated down to the minute when I’d have to turn back. The mileage back would be decreased, so I had a little extra time. But I wanted to give myself at least a few minutes to enjoy the view that I had worked so hard for, so that would take up some of that time. But the drive had been a little shorter than I had anticipated, so that bought me time. But I didn’t know what traffic I’d hit, and I had to find parking by the restaurant, so I couldn’t take too many liberties.

In the end, I set myself a time, kept walking as fast as I could manage, and hoped I’d make the scree fields in time.

My feet were on fire within a mile. I wear good hiking boots and padded hiking socks, but I was simply not conditioned for the pace I was maintaining. I pushed away the growing concern that I was setting myself up for an agonizing hike back.

After a few more anxious miles, the thick tree cover finally broke overhead and I found myself standing in the scree fields I had been dreaming of. The sheer cliffs of Table Mountain rose above me. The sky beyond was a piercing, unbroken blue. Birds of prey wheeled overhead, and by my feet, tiny yellow wildflowers swayed in a gentle breeze. It was everything I had hoped for, and the impatience that had propelled my feet onward left me in a rush. The rest of the trail could wait. I had made it.

Wildflower in the scree fields

Given a reprieve, the pain in my feet finally subsided. My boots sank into the moss as if they, too, were embracing this moment of stillness. My companion, however, was anything but still. Karma came racing by me in a bolt of pure joy. His long body defied the laws of physics as he ran and up and down hillocks of scree, bunching so tightly I thought he might tumble head over paw one moment, then lengthening until he seemed nearly as tall as the hillocks themselves. He paused to stake his claim on a wildflower bunch, slipping in the moss, then pranced around me in circles like a dressage pony.

Four minutes left. I settled on one of the scree piles, brushing off some curious ants, and chewed thoughtfully on a granola bar. His burst of energy spent as suddenly as it had come, Karma climbed back up next to me and lay his head down on his paws. My eyes were beginning to adjust to the sun, and I could pick out details in the cliffs that had initially been obscured by shadow. The trees came so close to the edge that they seemed posed to fall on us. I scanned them for the couple I had shared the trail with, knowing it was a pointless venture but feeling the need to make the effort anyway. As expected, the only movement above me came from the wind.

Those four blissful minutes expanded in my mind until it seemed I had spent most of my day sitting in this scree field, not trying to reach it.

When the time inevitably came for me to head back, I set off at a brisk pace, less punishing than the pace I had set before. As I’d feared, the agony in the soles of my feet increased step by step until it felt like the skin had surely been flayed from them. The peace I’d found in the scree fields, however, kept the pain from becoming too intrusive. Every step I took was as light as I could manage, my feet angling from side to side in a futile attempt to redistribute the pressure. Yet my mind stayed free, leaping from thought to thought like Karma leaping across the rocks.

There comes a time in every hike that I look forward to, though I can never predict when it will come. Its only requirement seems to be a solitary trail, which is a large part of why I hike alone and try to avoid crowds. Freed from the pressures of human contact, my mind detaches from my body, and all my senses narrow down to the tread of my boots on the trail. Step after step, as unavoidable as the rise and set of the sun, and seemingly as timeless. It lasts only few minutes, but for those minutes I experience nothing else. The movement of my body is effortless, unguided: I am merely its quiet passenger as we are propelled forward through the woods.

Then the moment passes, and I marvel.

That day, I feared the cherished moment would not come, kept at bay by my impatience and my pain. Nevertheless, as Karma and I trekked through the forest, accompanied only by the gentle rustling of the leaves and the thump of my footsteps, I could feel the tendrils creep in. My thoughts stilled; my pain retreated.

When I came back to myself, the trail had narrowed and I could tell we were close to the fork that would take us back to the trailhead. Karma had run ahead and was lying in the middle of the trail, ears pricked up expectantly.

I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face, even if I had wanted to. I had reached the scree fields. I had had my moment of restoration. I was even (a quick glance at my watch reassured me) on schedule.

My husband lent me his deodorant when I reached the restaurant, three minutes early, and our friend was unfazed by both my sweat and my dust.

A week later, Karma and I went back to the Two Chiefs Trail to finish the hike I had begun, accompanied by my sister. This time, we ran into not one, but two couples searching for Table Mountain. (I was only marginally more helpful this time.)

We encountered the first couple early in our hike, at just about the junction that had confused me before. They had a copy of a local trail guide, and after a brief conversation in which I shared the little I knew from my previous hike, they proclaimed their confidence in muddling through and we parted with a wave. As we didn’t encounter them on our way back, I can only assume their guidebook was the only foolproof resource I’ve seen yet on those trails.

Less than a half-mile from the scree fields, we encountered the second couple. They were bounding along the trail with a gait I recognized: it was the flustered gait I myself had adopted as I sped myself and Karma back towards the fork in the trail after realizing I was lost initially.

“Do you guys know where you’re going?” the woman called out to us.

I nodded. “We’re taking Two Chiefs to the base of Table Mountain.”

She let out a hiss of exasperation and threw her hands in the air. “I knew it was a bad sign when the trail started going down, not up!”

“We were trying to get to the top of Table Mountain,” her companion explained. His tone was calmer than hers, even sheepish, but his shoulders were tense and it was clear that he was just as irritated.

The woman was pacing the trail in a tight circle. “This took us to a waterfall instead.”

I cocked my head. That waterfall was, in fact, our destination, part of Greenleaf Creek. If this couple had made it to the waterfall, they had passed through my scree fields. (I had spent enough time lost on these trails last time, I figured I was allowed to get a bit possessive.) Sure, they would’ve been on the wrong end of the mountain they had set out to summit, looking up at the cliffs instead of down from them. I understood that frustration. But, I wondered, had they even stopped to take a breath when they’d seen what they discovered? Had they been so fixed on a victory over the mountain that they had been blind to all that lay below it? It seemed strange to me that anyone could reach such a place of uncluttered peace, feel the warmth of a clear summer sky, and still leave so discontented.

“We’re just so angry right now,” the man said, echoing my thoughts, and the two of them resumed their staccato rhythm down the trail.

I watched them go, feeling acutely sad for all they had missed. For a beautiful hike and a beautiful day that would be reduced to “That day we missed the trail to Table Mountain.” At the same time, I was aware of how close I had come to mirroring them on my last visit. Lesson learned, Nicole. Every minute I spend on the trail is a series of gifts: the gift of health, the gift of time, the gift of location, the gift of my puppy’s companionship. Best not to waste that.

My sister and I reached the waterfall, where Karma eagerly took respite from the warm day.

“Now I can say I’ve really done the Two Chiefs Trail,” I proclaimed, satisfied. “Maybe I’ll do Table Mountain next. I’ve run into enough people trying to find the damn thing.”

On the way back, we took some time to properly explore the scree fields. Several tiers of the debris lay at the base of the mountain, and every time I scrambled up one, the moss shifting unnervingly beneath my feet, another presented itself. The increasing probability of a twisted ankle finally made me stop midway up the slope. The sun flushed my cheeks as I turned slowly in a circle, soaking in every detail of the mountain above me, the wildflowers below me, the peak of Mt. Hood standing like a guardian over the shadowed Gorge.

My scree fields, indeed. My little pocket paradise.

Having come full circle, I closed one eye against the sun and squinted up at Table Mountain.

“I’m coming for you soon,” I murmured. Then I chuckled. “Well, good thing you’re not going anywhere. Might take me a few tries.”

Karma thinks the mossy scree makes for a fabulous spot to relax

The End of the Trail

Mt. Adams and the Columbia River Gorge, as seen from Aldrich Butte

Aldrich Butte

“Copilot...of my...”

I was staring off at the forested mountains that stretched out endlessly before me, but my attention was immediately pulled back by the first few words of the familiar phrase, spoken in an unfamiliar voice.

“Copilot of my heart,” I filled in, looking down at the ink on my arm. “It’s a tattoo I got with my sister.” In fact, I’d dropped her off at the airport for her Air Force survival training only the previous morning, and had spent much of my hike wondering how she was doing. I quickly explained the nuances of the tattoo to my fellow hiker: how each of our tattoos bore the other’s handwriting, the flight theme my sister had chosen for “copilot,” the EKG tracing I had chosen for “heart” to reflect my nursing career.

The woman nodded, and for a moment, we were silent. We strained our eyes against the bright day, watching her husband and daughters navigate a narrow spine of rock that marked the end of the trail, hundreds of feet above the trees below us.

The trail seems to hover above the trees

Her husband’s voice floated to us on the breeze, faint but excited. “Hey, you can see Mt. Adams from out here!”

I hike for solitude. I enjoy hiking with friends, too, but I feel most happy and most free with hours of empty trails and breathtaking views I enjoy on my own terms. The first solo hike I ever undertook was a desperate escape, the only self-care I could conceive of after a traumatic day in the ER that involved a pediatric suicide (my first pediatric code, my first completed suicide, the first time I drove home crying so hard I was screaming). Within months, my solo hikes with my dog, Karma, were staples on my days off.

Karma pretends to enjoy the views too, for my sake

Yet, somehow, I found I didn’t mind the presence of this woman and her family. It certainly helped that our first interaction was her fawning over Karma when he ran up to her seeking treats. The epitome of a food-motivated corgi, that one. (If I gave in to those puppy-dog eyes, I’d have to roll him alongside me.) More than that, however, was the easy silence I found us sharing as we stood atop Aldrich Butte, the beauty of the Columbia River Gorge spread out below us in all its greens and blues.

“My brother’s dying of cancer,” she finally said, her eyes still fixed ahead. “I’ve wanted to do that, to get a tattoo for him. Yours is really beautiful.”

The quiet admission surprised me, having met her five minutes before and ten feet away from where we now stood, and yet the human connection felt so natural that perhaps I was more surprised by my lack of surprise.

What else could I say, but, “I’m sorry.” I say those words so often. I almost always mean them; I almost always cringe internally at how insincere I sound. For once, to this woman I’d never meet again, my sincerity came through. I was fiercely grateful for that. And, having accepted the connection she offered me, I wanted to offer what I could back. I brushed my tattoo with a fingertip, the coarse fabric of the leash trailing behind.

“I don’t know what will happen with my sister,” I admitted. “I hope this is just a way for us to stay together when she’s deployed. But...this way I know she’s always with me. No matter what happens.”

She understood immediately. “He’s close to the end. I’ve been thinking about it. It would need to be soon. I have other tattoos, but this would be the most important.”

I thought about the simple loss line my sister-in-law carries on her forearm, a dark red the color of the dog she and my husband grew up with. I thought about the watercolor butterfly on a patient’s clavicle, for her daughter. I hadn’t asked how she’d died. I didn’t ask what kind of cancer this woman’s brother had, or when it had been diagnosed, or what treatments he had tried, but I wondered. Imagined him in the countless faces of cancer patients I have cared for.

Her husband was beginning to pick his way back over to us, trekking poles steadying his path over the rocks.

“You should do it,” I said. “You really should. It’ll always be with you. You won’t regret it.”

She nodded emphatically. “You’re right. It needs to be special, though.”

“Yeah, it does.”

Her husband was almost back. If I wanted to finish the trail, step by careful step out onto that ridge, now was the time.

I looked at her, and it was perhaps the first time we spoke truly face-to-face, neither one of us gazing out at the view.

“I hope it’s an easy end for him,” I said.

I realized I was shaking. It was the most heartfelt wish I could offer, and I saw her release a deep breath. A strange phrase to part on, perhaps, in another place, with another person. But our brief conversation had already told me that she was ready for it and would understand.

When she replied, “Thank you,” it was almost a whisper.

We shared a nod, and I edged out onto the trail, Karma’s leash firmly in hand. As the ground fell away at my feet, so did her tragedy. My world narrowed to one step, then another, edging forward inch by inch. I braced myself against a rock, stopped to look down at the forest far below us, almost swayed from vertigo, came back to myself. I spared a glance behind me, confirming for myself that the woman was once again surrounded by her family.

Then I looked forward again and squinted into the sun to find the promised Mt. Adams. I had my own family here, all four stumpy legs and two giant ears of him. As I pondered life and death, he nosed at the wildflowers clinging precariously to their vertical meadow, and tried to eat a butterfly.

The end of the Aldrich Butte trail