The Climb.

Those of you following this whole endeavour have no doubt been wondering what's been going on. After getting home the Monday after the climb I got bogged down with work and just got the photos off my camera now and my thoughts collected. Let's start at the beginning.

Having taken Friday off, I was up at the crack of dawn in order to make it to the mountain by 7AM so that we could start our snow school; this was essentially a recap of what we had done a few months ago with a few additions. We assembled in the guides' office where we went over equipment, safety procedures and put on our gaiters and boots. It was around this point that everything started to feel real, like it was actually going to happen. We also did a quick round of introductions where both the climbers and the guides introduced themselves. And quickly enough, we all streamed out, back to the gully to practice our footwork, crampon techniques and ropework. In the brutal sun we were at it until mid-afternoon. After roping up, we practiced random falls and self-arresting with the ice axe. We tried a few new variations, like when you find yourself hurtling down the mountain on your back, head down. I pulled off some epic belly flops, which were unfortunately not documented on camera. This is where we ended up breaking up into rope teams and being assigned the guides that would take us up the mountain. Our team consisted of my friend Chris (whom I met in Japan),
Ted (a tall, jolly skier with an enormous laugh that made a mountain locator unit essentially redundant) and Pat, a quiet fellow who in his 40s was in the kind of shape most of weren't in when we were 22. Our guide was John, from Montana. Roping up went smoothly and John told us that he felt pretty confident about how we worked together on the rope and that if the conditions permitted, he'd take us up an optional, more challenging route... based on what I heard from previous climbers, this could involve 60 degree pitches, making it very... exciting!



A quick change into street clothes and we're on the Sno-Cat up to Silcox Hut, a small lodge further up the mountain, where we'll be spending the night. It was originally built in 1939 as the ending point for one of the chairlifts at the ski area. Our host, Steve, whipped up some snacks and a delicious dinner, which we ate in the main hall, family style, before getting our packs and gear ready for the climb and shuffling off to the bunks to try and get a few hours' sleep before the climb. Here I am in the dining hall:



Group shot. We're pumped.



And here is a panorama I stitched together from approximately 8 photos taken from the front entrance to the hut. You can see the Sno-Cat and a view of the mountain. We're at approximately 7000 feet at this point. I like the idea of sleeping up here, since during our last hike up the Palmer snowfield (where the ski area and hut are) I got a little dizzy and was worried about altitude issues.



We tried to sleep, but it didn't happen. I spent three hours tossing and turning, though one of my bunkmates claims she heard me snoring briefly. Thankfully, there was enough adrenaline in my body that when the alarm went off, I bounded out of bed and started getting ready. We were going up in two groups, about half an hour apart. We weren't departing from the hut itself, but from a ridge at the top of Palmer not too far above, putting us above the ski area so that we could climb unimpeded. To better decide our clothing layers, the guides suggested we step outside the hut and if we were comfortable it meant we were overdressed. We were amazed to see that it was quite warm outside and most of us ended up wearing our thinnest underlayer with a thin shell and nothing else. This was surprising, as another guide (Geoff) had told us it was brutally cold the day before and he was climbing with all his layers, including a down jacket. It didn't matter. It was just after midnight. We were off.

The cat dropped us off at the top of Palmer, at the ridge to which we hiked to just a week ago as part of our last training hike. The pitch here was steeper than where the hut was, and the cat was having some trouble in the soft snow. Once we got out of the cat and it slid down the mountain, it was quickly forgotten. We were sitting in silent blackness, with only a few flickering lights below where Timberline Lodge was. Excitedly, we put on our crampons, got out our trekking poles (the snow was too soft for ice axes, and the poles were better for the initial part of the approach before we roped up on the steeps) and quickly, almost nonchalantly, stepped up and started climbing. The guides kept us in a larger group of eight for the time being, and off we went.

Darkness.

Silence.

The training hikes ranged from brisk to gruelling, where in some cases we were barelling up peaks at a pace somewhere on the north side of comfortable. This seemed a bit brutish in comparison to climbing the peak of Mount Hood; the guides had stressed proper footwork in snow class, which we diligently employed, knowing that without ropes and with our axes on our packs, if we fell we'd basically slide down on our asses to the departure point. On the upside, we had less chance of taking others down if this happened, though there was no guarantee of this either. The pace was deliberate, almost zen-like. Kick your foot in to create a step or foothold. Test that your step can hold your weight. Once you know it does, step up. Lock your knee to let your skeletal structure take your body weight for a second or two thus giving your muscle a mini-rest. Transfer weight. Repeat. Slow going, but far less tiring than some of our registration hikes, and a completely different feel. Our confidence mounted as we kept climbing, knowing that all those practice hikes had got us into good enough shape to do this.

We stopped a couple of, always briefly, to hydrate, fuel up with snacks or to adjust layers. The air was warm, the snow was soft, and we noticed that the guide was traversing across the snow several times, guiding us through some rocky sections as well. The snow remained consistently soft and some of our foot plants resulted in the soft snow giving way. The mountain pitched up and after about 1:30 or 2:00 AM I stopped taking photos. Here are a couple of self-portraits from our two breaks at the beginning of the climb as well as a picture of John, our guide.





We were somewhere above 9000 feet and were close to a couple of high rocks when we started to hear sounds. Sharp, cascading sounds, like thin flat rocks tumbling down and breaking up. These would last for up to 45 seconds, unseen in the darkness to our right. Everyone pretended like nothing was happening until someone asked a guide what that was. The guides all seemed a little troubled at this point and preoccupied with something.

"Rock fall," was the answer.

No one else said a thing.

The mountain pitched up and we began to push up a little wall that led up over Crater Rock to the interior of the crater with the sulphur pits and where we'd begin our ascent of Hog's Back - a ridge that traverses the far wall of the crater and places you on the final ascent to the icy summit of Mount Hood. We breathed a little heavier from the extra exertion and felt a little surge of excitement. To our left we could now see the glow of Portland and we were rounding the 10,000 foot mark. The snow felt mealy and mushy under our feet, making the climb a little tricky. Our guides were quietly chatting amongst themselves and asking us about how we were feeling on our feet in the snow a fair bit.

Then we stopped.

Up ahead there were lights. Headlamps. We saw Phil, who was guiding the folks in the group ahead of us, and he had a serious look on his face. "Lightning storm," said Geoff as the guides asked us to hang on for a few moments and chatted amongst each other for a few minutes. I steadied myself and looked back from the side of the mountain just in time to see lightning flickering across a mountaintop some distance away. The city glow and the faintest of glows in the sky showed us the outline of a huge conical thunderhead that mirrored the little peak whose summit was being pounded by lightning.

"I've been watching that for 20 minutes," I heard Geoff say. "It doesn't look good."

I realised the wind was carrying the thunderhead directly towards us.

"We're coming down guys," said the guides. "We have to turn around."

We didn't question or argue with these guides. It's their job to keep us safe and one of the rules on the mountain was to listen to these guys like you'd listen to your captain at sea. But we didn't even get to the phase where arguing would be one of the possible options. We were still in the first stage; denial. We stood there, dumbfounded, catching peeks of the lightning every few minutes, with the occasional whip of wind trying to remind us this was for real.

I spoke to my fellow climbers later, and I know we all thought the same thing. It wasn't happening. The wind will change. We'll wait it out. The guides will tell us to hold off and we'll watch the storm dissipate then climb up to the peak in glory and tell everyone about our near-miss. We stood there, making up excuses until several members of the first group climbed down past us and Phil, one of the more experienced guides said to us, "come on, we need to get off this mountain. Let's make a good pace down!"



Was this really happening? So close to the summit, and we were turning around? Denial faded as we were told to start descending. I turned around and looked up at the mountain. There was a faint glow in the sky, as it was around 3:30 in the morning at this point. The dim glow gave the eye enough light to trace the contour of the summit towering above us. The culmination of five months of burning through tanks of gas at 6AM to slog up a forest path with a backpack full of ballast; of five months of asking people for donations, of learning to use new gear, of filling out our equipment list, talking to people about what we were doing, building friendships around a common goal, and watching our lives slowly converge around this one event, this place, a white hot point glowing on our calendars, and a measly 1200 vertical feet away from this nexus we were turning around on our heels and walking back down the mountain. Reason told us that the guides were making the right choice for safety reasons. The night before, Jennifer, who has been organizing this event for five years got brained by a falling chunk of ice and was hospitalized. There were rocks falling around us in the darkness, the snow has the consistency of butter and a storm was moving towards us. Yes, reason told us that turning around was the sensible thing to do, but damn it. It was as appealing as eating a slug. We all wondered how bad it would be to weather the storm. Who cares if we got hit with a few rocks or some ice? We wanted to get to that summit, damnit! But as Phil's voice and a few wind lashes cleared the clouds of irrationality from our heads, we resignedly turned around and started down the mountain. The soft was slow enough for us to plunge step down withing the necessity of walking single file behind a guide. In a slow, shambling chaos, we silently walked downwards, leapfrogging one another as people stopped to look up at the summit above, shake their heads and continue.

With the darkness and slow, deliberate pace up the mountain, it was hard to chart progress. Consequently, we were amazed at how far we had made it. We descended at what we felt was an almost running pace, for close to 90 minutes, down steep chutes and open snow fields. The hut down below was out of sight for a very long time and we felt like we had walked forever. It seemed to drag on and on, and we slowed down with each step as we reached the Palmer snowfield and the ground levelled off, until most were crawling back to the hut like kicked dogs or a team that just got crushed out on the field.



(The angle, by the way, really downplays the mountain. Pay it no heed.)

People said later that Silcox Hut felt like a morgue that morning. No one said much. I saw John, our guide, with an expression on his face that looked like someone had run over his dog. The guys were obviously unhappy with the tough decision that they had to take. Another guide, Kevin, who had come to Mount Hood this year from another alpine area told us that he tried to summit six times this year, and never made it due to either the people he was guiding not being able to make it or the weather and conditions being dangerous and necessitating a turnaround.

"You guys were gonna be my golden ticket," he joked. Reach the Summit climbers were always prepared due to our conditioning program.

In retrospect, the guides later told us the storm was an easy pretext to use to get off the mountain without freaking anyone out, but they were also very concerned by the snowmass that didn't freeze and the falling rocks. "It felt like the mountain was coming apart," one said, "and we wouldn't have gone on even if there was no storm in all likelihood." This was nice to hear. By the time we made it down, the storm had passed sideways and morphed into bad weather over Portland. The sky was still overcast and the winds substantial, though. I whipped out my cel phone knowing my folks were waiting for the call from the summit. I could barely do it. I had to compose myself for a few minutes before dialing. Likewise, it took me a few days to work up the gumption to write up the climb. Maybe this is going to sound hokey, but I couldn't even look at the mountain at first. I felt relieved when I found out I wasn't the only who got a just a little bleary-eyed looking at that peak on our way back to the post-climb/fundraising gala. Yes, we were good sports about it, but this was about so much more than summiting for most of us. I certainly felt like I was letting people down; an irrational idea, perhaps, but one founded entirely on emotion. We'll all summit eventually, but doing it as part of a team with the people we forged bonds with over months of shared sweating and knowing that we were all in it together for the same reason was a pretty big deal for most of us. So my apologies to some of you getting impatient to hear about the climb, but there is a time and a place for everything, and I had to process all this to come out of this gracefully, instead of boring you all to tears about how crappy not making it to the top of a mountain is.

So here's a hearty thanks to all of you who supported me. Financially, emotionally, logistically, and in any other way besides. Without you I wouldn't have even tried doing this in the first place. Between all of us, we raised over a quarter million dollars for the Lung Association, to allow them to continue their fight against lung disease. We did something fun for a great cause, raised a boatload of money, and missed the cherry on top because the mountain did what all mountains do, and let us know to not take her for granted. We were generously offered a full climb credit for another ascent (July 31st, 2008 in my case!) and have already organised our own training hikes and ascents of other local mountains. New friendships were made, and it really feels like the beginning of something wonderful rather than a failure or unsatisfactory end, though it initially got a little lost at the awards gala as we watched videos from the summit of the other teams that made it.

Your donations, really, were to the cause we were all supporting, and as such the event was successful. We did well. My climb was a way to make this happen; I could have hired a guide on my own much more easily, but the idea was to make some kind of difference, and we did. The mountain dickered with us on that little detail of the summiting, but we're coming back to take care of it.

That said, I'll still punch the next lightning bolt I see right in its stupid nose.




(The location of our summit photoshoot got moved. We apologize for the inconvenience.)

The Big Day Approaches

The time of the climb is almost upon me. I've been doing my best to try and update the blog, but with work and other commitments, I have fallen behind. At this point, I may not be able to post the rest of the hikes until I come down from the actual ascent of Mount Hood itself. I also got sick only a few days before the climb, and as much as I would love to put in a few late nights getting this blog finished before the big day, I have to balance this with making sure I am well-rested and healthy for the day of the climb. Altitude and fatigue will be big enough factors to contend with, without having to skimp on sleep to get the updates up.

So to everyone who's helped and supported me along the way and to my Dad, the impetus behind this whole undertaking, I would like to give a hearty thanks and assure you that if you want to keep on reading, I will update the blog retroactively with all the adventures leading up to and including The Big One.

It's Wednesday night and my medication has kicked in and is in grave danger of whisking me off to sleep before I finish typing this. My living room is full of strange gear, my car's tank is full of gas, and my fridge is full of strange performance gels for climbers that have saved the day a few times on the practice hikes. Tomorrow, I'll be going to bed extremely early and waking at the crack of dawn to head to the mountain, and I'm afraid the updates will have to wait until Monday when I am back. I haven't had a chance to post it up yet, but I hiked up Mount Defiance a few weeks ago, which by all accounts is, physically speaking, a slog comparable to Hood. This makes me feel good, since our pace will be slower. I think I'm as ready as can be, and anything else I will have to make up with sheer willpower. It's going to be a hell of a challenge and I plan to do right by all of you and fly the Dubiel flag on the craggy peak of Mount Hood, Oregon, USA.

Again, thank you everyone for your kind words and support. I'm off to climb that thing, and I'll see you on the other side!

April 20: Tilly Jane Snowshoe & Cloudcap (sort of)

Excitement! Another snowshoe. I really had a fantastic time snowshoeing at Mirror Lake and was itching to do it again. I made sure I brought my camera so that I could take all kinds of pictures to show you. Unfortunately, I didn't notice that I had left it on all week, and pulled it out only to be greeted by a dead battery. I managed to fish out a few pictures that other people managed to take.

The Tilly Jane snowshoe was tougher than the previous hike, and started much higher as well. Officially, the elevation gain was supposed to be around 1800 feet (550 m) and up to Cloudcap a total of 3200 ft (975 m) - due to all the snow up there we ended up taking a slightly wrong turn, schlepping up a big ridge and getting up at least another 1000 vertical feet (300 m) right up next to Cooper Spur.

The trailhead is at an approximate elevation of 3200 feet (975 m) above sea level and the trail began to slope up pretty much immediately. I had some difficulty during this hike. Not sure what the cause of it was, but I ended up falling behind my comrades in the fast group and ended up joining up with the front of the second group at the suggestion of one of the hike leaders, Daniel (who stuck it out with me for a while.) It was a good slog through the snow and varying terrain to the Tilly Jane cabin. This is an old cabin that is maintained by people on contract from the Forest Service. It was quite a relief as we rolled into the hut, lit the wood stove and warmed up, ate and drank our fill.





As you can see, there was quite a bit of snow, and more had started coming down as we sat inside the cabin. In spite of this, it was decided that we were going to snowshoe an optional leg of the hike. Joe, the leader, assured us that it was a pretty gentle hike and that the views would be beautiful. We packed up and started trudging up the gentle slope and slowly the snow stopped falling and we found ourselves above the clouds. After coming to a fork in the trail and some debate (the snow had covered up many of the trail markers) a path was chosen in the general direction we were planning to go in. Soon, the woods cleared and we were confronted with a steep incline at the end of which was a mean-looking ridge.

"Hey Joe, is this the gentle climb you promised us?" we yelled. Joe responded that we hadn't exactly taken the right trail, but since we were here, this would be very good training as the ridge above us mimicked the Hog's Back, a large ridge near the summit of Mount Hood that we would be crossing during our ascent.

Here's a butt-end view of yours truly as we start our ascent towards the ridge.



In the end, it was a hell of a push, and a testament to how important mental fitness is to climbing. I can't speak for the others, but judging by the sounds some folks were making, they were at a similar point of exhaustion as myself. I had to will myself up this ridge. Playing head games of counting steaps, reciting little mantras and through sheer stubbornness we finally got to the top of the ridge, threw on our down jackets before our sweat turned cold and chilled us, and took a moment to look around and enjoy the view.

And what a view it was. The altimeters didn't all completely agree, but we figured we were around the 7000-7500 ft mark (2133-2286 m) which made for a pretty impressive vertical ascent after we were already tuckered out at the hut. We had a gorgeous view of the terrain below us, and saw an eagle flying up out of the gully below the ridge. Above us was the north face of Mount Hood - this is the tough and technical ascent, and the place where several bodies of unfortunate climbers who succumbed to the mountain still lie, lost to the elements. We will be climbing the south face, but this angle instilled real respect for the mountain onto which we will be making our small incursion.

I looked through some topo maps and pictures online and figured out that this was the exact spot we were standing in (the picture is scanned from a book about the best backwoods skiing in Oregon):



I found some pictures on past climbers' blogs as well as those of my fellow climbers to include as well, so here they are for your viewing pleasure.




Coming down was delightful, in stark contrast to the slog upwards. The deep snow let us plunge-step down in minutes, the running motion exaggerated and almost comical, like we were all John Cleese from Monty Python's "Ministry of Funny Walks" sketch.

Several weeks after the hike (you may notice I've had to post most of these reports retroactively, so it really doesn't matter in the long run) I found a blog by a very nice couple who did Reach the Summit in 2007. They were very organised and published some Google Earth data and looking over this data as well as their screenshots, it seems that they climbed the very same route that we did. This begs the question: was there really a mistake? Or was Joe trying to toughen us up, and rewarded the people who wanted to hike more with a real solid final push that we may have whined our way out of otherwise? It's hard to tell for sure, but I present for your consideration a pretty spectacular Google Earth screen capture as well as a link to someone else's data for you to try out.



Tilly Jane Google Earth link - right click and save the file to your computer.

April 13: Snow Clinic / Mount Hood

This date differed from the previous hikes in that we weren't out there hiking on trails, but would get our first taste of of mountaineering. This was our snow school, where we'd strap on mountaineering boots and crampons, grab our ice axes and practice roping up, footwork, and various strategies to cope with falling; basic mountaineering skills, taught to us in small groups by the Timberline mountain guides, the same people who will be leading us on the actual climb. My experience did not begin auspiciously; every rental helmet in town didn't fit my gigantic noggin, and feeling sheepish I showed up with my yellow bicycle helmet as a temporary workaround. In later weeks, the mountaineering shops in Portland all received calls and visits from a bearded fellow with a large head looking for "the widest helmet you have, please."

Bright and early, we headed up to Mount Hood proper, and met in one of the exquisite rooms at Timberline Lodge. I could write a whole lot about Timberline Lodge, as it's quite an amazing place, but I'll keep it brief. If you've seen the Stanley Kubrick film "The Shining" - that's Timberline Lodge during the opening sequence, though the film itself was not shot there. Timberline Lodge came into being as a work project during the Great Depression. It is a beautiful old lodge constructed from local timber and stone, and it's built approximately 6000 feet (1800 m) up on Mount Hood. There's a ski area there, with virtually year-round skiing because of Palmer glacier. I keep meaning to go skiing there in the July heat, but the $49 lift ticket price plus the gas involved has ensured that it hasn't happened yet.

Here's a shot of the lodge I got from Wikipedia's article about Timberline.



The foyer of the lodge has a stone fireplace, and from there we entered the meeting room. Much of the inside of the lodge is constructed from rough-hewn wood with plenty of carvings to occupy the eye. Sadly, I didn't bring my camera that day, so you'll be seeing mostly recycled photos, as well as a few photos taken by my fellow climbers from our shared photo repository. Please respect the photographers, and don't circulate these photos. There we were then, inside the room where we got briefed by our guides, a disproportionate amount of whom are Irish. Joe, one of the veteran guides continuously apologised for his impenetrable brogue and gave us the safety rundown as well as reassuring us about any fears and apprehensions we may have.

"We keep risk low and control high at all times," he says "and while some of you may be outside of your personal comfort zone on the mountain, rest assured that you are well within the guide's comfort zone, and if we were to even approach anywhere near the limit of this, we would not be going up."

This kind of reassurance is always good to hear. I know these people are experts who have been doing this much of their lives; I don't remember the number of times Joe said he'd climbed Mt. Hood this year, but it's pretty well equivalent to the seasonal amount of underwear changes most folks go through. He's been at it for 17 years also. I figure I'm in good hands.

Below you can see the meeting room, and a few of my fellow climbers. The two red-haired guys are a Gerry and Christian, a father and son team. The bearded fellow is Pete. Pete's a wildlife biologist and climbing for his 50th birthday. Gerry is a firefighter. These guys were my carpool for many of the hikes, so I got to know them a little bit better. The guy with the giant beard is Kjell, a towering Dutchman. While we were sitting at the lodge, I was introduced to a guy named Steve Papp. Steve and I were introduced by another climber, Patty, whom I knew already since we had something interesting in common: we were both alumni of the JET program and had lived in Japan. Patty had been there during the program's inception, however, in the late 1980s. Pre-Internet and before many of the current support networks for foreigners were in place. Her Japanese is still better than mine is, for obvious reasons. When Patty introduced me to Steve, it turned out that Steve is headed to Japan on the JET programme this year. Steve and I have been in contact since, and went out for sushi nearby (he lives not far from us) and I just found out that he's going to Hyogo, the same prefecture I was stationed in for two years! I promised Steve a good night of drinking out once he gets his town placement, when in the interest of helping out a friend (and living vicariously a little, of course) I will give him the lowdown on his town and placement!



After we were each assigned a guide, we hiked into one of the gullies that runs down the mountain and picked a steep section of the gully's wall, dropped our packs and started setting up. Our guide patiently guided us from the very rudiments all the way up to being on a rope team. We were shown one thing at a time; whether it was a step or using our ice axe. Eventually we would combine more and more steps and techniques until we were zigzagging up the slope, roped up together. To a novice such as myself it was good to take it slowly, as the footwork got a little overwhelming at first. It was also a great workout, as every time we tried a new step we would run down the gully wall and start climbing again. The pitch was decent (I assure you the photos are taken with a pretty wide lens) and the sun was beating down hard on us all, so we were all exhausted and sunburned at the end of the day. The guide told us to spare no sunscreen.

"I've burned the roof of my mouth from panting from exertion and having reflected light go into my mouth," he said while squeezing out brown goo from a plastic wrapper. We noticed it was a Snickers bar that had melted. "Oh, and make sure you get the underside of your nose and your nostrils." Good call; I did so, but I still got a bit red there. I also burned the tops of my ears pretty badly, and got raccoon eyes from my ski goggles. Live and learn.

Since I did not have my camera with me, I have taken the liberty of using a few representative shots taken by my fellow climbers. Unfortunately, I don't appear in any of them. Or maybe fortunately; it largely depends on whom you ask.





In the coming weeks, as the hikes got noticeably steeper, we had a chance to use some of the footwork we learned today. These have proved very useful in making the climbs easier on my Achilles' tendon as well as helping with pacing and not over-exerting myself. The biggest problem is remembering everything, but we get a refresher on the mountain the day of the climb, so I'm not too worried about it.

Burned and pooped, I came home and awaited the next adventure.

Inevitable delays.

Apologies to all reading; I've not been on top of the updates in the last few days and I'm leaving town tomorrow on a road trip that will take me through eastern Washington State, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming and northern Colorado. I will be back next week and hereby promise to update with all of the April and May hikes, which have been quite exciting.

Though I am reluctant to jump the gun, I'm very excited about having hiked up to the top of Mount Defiance, a 5000 vertical foot slog which some folks say is as physically demanding as the ascent of Hood itself. As you can imagine, this has had an amazing psychological effect on me! Cruelly, I must make you wait until I am back in town to keep reading. I wish you all a great week and see you soon!

April 6: Mirror Lake & Tom Dick & Harry

As you can see by the date, I slacked a little bit in March then headed home to Ottawa for Easter. As a result it was almost a month before I hiked again, and it wasn't technically even a hike - it was my first real snowshoeing experience. I went and rented some snowshoes at REI (for those of you in Canada, it's the US equivalent of Mountain Equipment Co-op) and was good to go.



Mirror Lake is a small lake in the Mount Hood National Forest, but I can't tell you much more - it was frozen over and didn't appear very big at all. The only indication we were near a lake was the lack of trees in that area - everything was under quite a bit of snow. Near Mirror Lake is Tom, Dick and Harry Mountain, so named because of the three small peaks that stick out of its main ridge. I kept annoying the guides by asking them if they knew which was which.

TD&H is around 5000' (1524 m) in altitude, but the trailhead also starts pretty high up; around 3400' (1036 m) giving this hike an elevation gain of 1600' (488 m) over 6.4 miles (10.3 km).

I managed to find both an elevation profile and Google Map at Backpacker Magazine, but couldn't get the functioning map to correctly embed in Blogger, so I just took a nice screenshot to show you guys. If you want to view the map interactively, follow this link. You can check the whole page devoted to the hike here.




The weather in Portland was pretty nice when we left (if a little drizzly, but I guess I have lived here long enough that drizzle doesn't constitute bad weather to me anymore). As we drove up to the snow line, it started coming down pretty hard. We got a nice tour of Highway 26 after we missed the trailhead and drove on for a while in the snow. When we made it, we had to put our snowshoes on in freshly fallen wet snow, and a ton of it. We managed to get out with the last group, jumped over the precarious little wooden bridge over a creek and up we went. Today, "we" meant the carpool group I shared for the next few hikes: Pete, a wildlife biologist and old-school outdoorsman, Jerry, a firefighter and his son Christian. Pete's the guy with the beard in some of these picturs and Christian is the guy with the long red hair. I'm the funny looking guy in the hat in most instances.

Getting ready:




The hike up was beautiful. Several fresh coatings of snow covered the tree branches, and in spite of the abundant snow that was coming down, it really did feel like a winter wonderland - if only we knew what was coming ahead! Some of the trees were immense, and the scale of everything was humbling. Huge trees on the side of a large mountainside, with little ants with backpacks wending their way in between. The climb was steady with a few pretty steep pitches to give this novice snowshoer a good workout. Here are a few shots of the hike up the initial section and around the lake.






We stopped at a little clearing to eat and rest. I was feeling pretty good about the climb so far, though not a little tired. I carelessly wolfed down a sandwich and tried to relax. We were in the clouds and visibility wasn't very good and I didn't notice that we were standing at the edge of a mountain that was bigger and steeper what we've been climbing and that people were starting to break off into groups and scale the steep path going up. I groaned, bucked up, and we started what turned out to be the actual climbing part of the hike. Here we go!




While I didn't have my full backpack on yet, this particular part of the hike was good training. The visibility was next to nil, we had wind and snow blowing in our faces, and so instead of enjoying the views, we put our heads down and simply went up, up, up, without asking questions. This made me concentrate better on my climb, and making sure I kept pace with the hiker in front of me. I was also glad I brought a hooded shell.

Maybe it was the lack of visibility or the fact that we were getting rubbery legs, but we were continually teased with the promise of a summit. Every time we rounded a steep stretch thinking we were there, we were only greeted by another little hill, a turn around the side of the mountain or another little rise in the path. Our leader, Foxie, finally took us up on a little ridge where the pitch levelled of and broke for a quick rest. The ridge dipped a little, then continued up and there we were on Tom Dick and Harry. At that moment, we saw a break in the clouds looking out towards the ridge. Soon, we were treated to lovely views of surrounding hills and mountains covered in snow-frosted trees. We found a more sheltered spot to rest, rehydrate and grab a snack and enjoyed the satisfaction one gets from slogging a few hours to stand on top of something.

Below are some pictures of Foxie as we rounded the ridge, and yours truly bouncing around at the top of the hill. As a bonus, one of the aforementioned views of snow-frosted hills.





The ridge that runs the span of Tom Dick & Harry is a long one and there were some gorgeous steep drops down that made me wish I was skiing and not snowshoeing. At this altitude, the snow was less wet and very inviting to a skier. As it turns out, we got to do the next best thing. We decided to take a steep route down directly off the ridge, which Foxie used as an opportunity to teach us the plunge step - where you plant the back of the snowshoe in at a steep angle into the snow then transfer your weight onto it and bear down. The snowshoe's surface absorbs your weight and as the snowshoe flattens out you float gently down until your foot is horizontal. Repeat this and you basically run down a mountain in slow motion. It was quite fun and I ended up blasting down the drop-off with a big grin on my face. Waiting at the bottom for our whole group to arrive made me want to go back up as several of the ladies in the group got the idea that it would be a lot more fun to slide down on their butts. As much fun as running down was, this option seemed at least as enjoyable...





We descended some very steep sections, and as a farewell to the mountain before we re-entered the woods to go back to the lake and the trailhead, we decided to build a snowman at the end of the little pass we had just descended. We got to working, and ended up with something that looked more like a swine than a snowman. We christened him the Snow-Pig and left him as the watcher of the pass and guardian of whatever hikers came after us. In reality, we probably freaked out some unsuspecting hikers, though I have yet to hear tales of a mysterious pig cult operating in the mountains of Oregon.




As we went into the woods, the clouds rolled in again, following us down to the trailhead. It started snowing pretty hard as we walked past the snow-covered trees, but we were happy to note that it wasn't raining in Portland when we got back. I came home drenched, another feather in my hat. This hike was a load of snowy fun, and a nice taste of winter landscapes which, after 20 years in Canada, I was starting to really miss in the misty and wet Pacific Northwest. Any of you reading this in Ottawa think I'm nuts to miss the snow, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't.

Stay tuned for the next installment where I go hiking the back trails with a mystic!

March 2: Angel's Rest, Revisited

After a satisfying start at Angel's rest, I was disappointed to miss the next week's hike due to prior commitments. To make up for it, I decided to revisit Angel's Rest alone a week after the first hike. I can thus dispense with statistics and ramble freely about the hike itself.

The training hikes are always very well-run. Designed to foster camaraderie amongst all of us who will be climbing together, no pets, spouses, friends or significant others are allowed. This has worked very nicely, allowing us to bond and make friendships instead of having people pair up and coccoon amongst each other. It tends to make for rather social climbs, and it was for that reason that my second hike up to Angel's Rest was a very interesting experience in that it was the diametric opposite of the previous week's hike; a solitary, almost meditational experience.

One advantage of hiking in a group that meets at a predetermined time and location is the incentive to get out of bed at 6AM on a weekend. Without the benefit of external motivation, I didn't make it to the trailhead until early afternoon. Whereas the first hike was a misty early morning affair with soft morning light, this was a bright noontime climb, and a lot warmer than before. The woods seemed more lush with the warm weather, and I passed some babbling brooks and mossy woods as I started climbing.




When you get to the top of Angel's Rest, before the dropoff there are several rocks that jut out just off the trail. In and on said rocks are lots of little perches and comfortable spots that people usually occupy to relax in, eat, drink or just look out over the woods and river below. As I approached the rocks, I noticed two young women sitting on top of one of them, in lotus position, facing the warm sun and meditating with their eyes closed. The sun was starting to dip towards the west, bathing them in golden light. They looked very peaceful. I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to sit up on top of the mountain and do the same. I picked a perch, ate and drank, and cleared my mind, looking out over the sweeping vistas of the gorge.





The sun was slowly starting to sink towards the horizon and the air developed a cool bite that was the signal to start climbing down. The clear day was slowly becoming a hazy afternoon, and as the sun descended the gorge became awash with golden light, which was further diffused by the haze to create a warm, almost milky landscape around me. As I walked down the path, I could see the reflection of the sun moving across the surface of the water. My mind clear and my mood mellow I slowly floated down the path stopping to take an occasional snapshot and track the sun's path across the uncharacteristically still river.




As I made my way through the section of the trail that wound through the charred trees I heard something moving in the grass and looked over and saw two snakes coiled together. They froze as I approached. I like to think that their fear instincts were actually courtesy, stopping their movement to let me photograph them in the rapidly vanishing light. After a couple of minutes, they slithered away, and when I turned around I was treated to the beginning of a gorgeous sunset through the trunks of the burned trees, which accompanied me all the way down.




If this entry seems to be on the aesthetic side to you, you're correct. A solo hike of the same route I did with the group previously was very much an aesthetic experience. I am glad to say that it was physically easier to get up there the second time, but it was also very rewarding to focus on the mountain and the zen aspect of being surrounded by the nature modern man spends a lot of time insulating himself from. Rather than just using the mountain as a sort of gym it was healthy to take it all in, from the sights and sounds to the smells of the woods, the breezes and temperature fluctuations, the patterns in the trees and the textures under foot. Maybe it sounds hokey, but to a city dweller like myself it's something that is missing in my daily life and graciously appreciated whenever it can be experienced.

I came home tired and elated and in a wonderful, mellow mood for the rest of the evening.

That's it for this entry. Stay tuned for more, coming up tomorrow!