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| Table Mountain from the 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.
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| Pretty forest. Wrong trail. |
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.
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| 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.”
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| Karma thinks the mossy scree makes for a fabulous spot to relax |
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