I’d reached the breaking point: June-uary had worn out its welcome and it was July 1st; there was simply no excuse anymore. I wanted summer. My friends and I daydreamed of running trails along the sunny spines of craggy ridge lines with Cascade volcanoes gleaming white in the sun and electric blue sky, guiding us like cardinal points. The pitter-patter of the rain drops and the back and forth of the windshield wipers snapped us from that fiction on Sunday morning though, forcing those heavenly images from our minds. The madness had to stop, but somehow it wasn’t and so we continued driving on I-84 eastbound into the drizzle and fog, determined nevertheless. We wanted to test our minds and bodies against the beautiful, unfettered earth and feel our feet treading on rocky trails through lush, emerald forests. We sought a stout adventure deep in the Mark O. Hatfield Wilderness of the Columbia Gorge and a little precipitation wasn’t going to stop us.
When we parked at the Herman Creek Campground and trailhead, the weather showed no signs of improving but it mattered not for we were already committed. All three of us–Jonny Bomber, David “the Hoosier” Herron, and myself, Freefall Willie–are experienced mountain runners and are training for long-distance trail races so we were prepared and excited for a good effort. We packed minimally but adequately–a layer or two each, some trail food and water, a map, a cell phone for emergencies, a headlamp or two–and had been on most of the trails in that area before so we felt comfortable with the undertaking.
We were looking to cover 25-30 miles and get up to some high points in the process and so, the night prior, I’d gone to work doing one of my favorite things: mapping out a good, aesthetic route that follows the natural features of the land. I remembered a loop I’d wanted to try and added up the numbers on the map to get the mileage; it was perfect, 26+ miles. The route started at Herman Creek and followed that trail and another short spur to connect with the infamous Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). The PCT is an epic foot path, traveling 2,650 from Mexico to Canada, right through our great state. Once on the PCT, we would switch-back steeply to the Benson Plateau and continue south-bound along the ridge to the summit of Chinidere Mountain (4,673 ft), an ascent of almost 4,400 ft. from the trailhead. The route would then follow the ridge line counter-clockwise around the head of the Herman Creek Watershed, encircling the entire valley, passing above Wahtum Lake en route to Green Point Mountain (4,736 ft), the highpoint of the day. From Green Point Mountain we would take the Nick Eaton Ridge trail all the way back down to the car, an awesome descent of ~4,400 ft in less than 8 miles. That would be it: 26+ miles in all with 5,000+ ft. of ascent/descent, a perfect mountain marathon.
It is always a fine line on big training runs. You want to push hard and feel like you’ve really worked yourself but you don’t want to be a fool with tunnel-vision, grinding it out with your head down, missing all the beauty and the fascinating details of land surrounding you, all the real reasons you’re out there in the first place. We pushed ourselves overall and kept a decent pace, but also stopped to enjoy where we were. We relished the wildflowers, paused to appreciate the play of the clouds low in the valley, swirling and dancing around the tree tops, blowing through moist, mossy limbs. Lichen glinted with dew drops, shining like jewels and the leaves of the undergrowth made noise as it brushed against our bodies as we ran through it. The brilliant white of the Bear Grass and the neon red-orange of the Indian Paintbrush were magnets to our gaze, scattered amongst the open, rocky sections that came here and there along the ridge. Once to Benson Plateau and beyond the trail is actually quiet gentle and so we managed a good pace and before long found ourselves below the talus-covered flanks of Chinidere. Up we went, further into the clouds, soon perching on the bare rocks and pulling out food and water. Sitting up there, becoming chilled to the bone with just a few minutes of being still, reminded us of the severity of the Columbia Gorge. Even in July. It is real deal wilderness that can kill you in a minute; it is textbook hypothermia conditions even in “summer.” I’ve learned lessons out there the hard way and have developed a deep respect for the land. We ate and drank, imagined the sights that we could not see, saw our own visions on the pure white canvas all around, then moved on, wanting to warm up and get the legs moving.
We hit the a few lingering snow patches on the dirt road between Rainy Lake and Wahtum Lake, keeping a solid pace on the rolling terrain. Excitement overcame us as we danced over the rocky trail beside a cloud filled abyss that obscured North Lake and Rainy Lake hundreds of feet below, descending a bit on our way to the small saddle on the ridge before Green Point. We were happy and relaxed, the big ascent was over and the route-finding easy. Our bodies felt light and able as we cruised the moderate grade, snaking along the Waucoma Ridge to the humble, understated summit of Green Point, en route to the Nick Eaton Ridge. As we floated along–buzzing off the landscape, the endorphins, our love of the natural world–the conversation turned to the awesomeness of our situation. We made sure to recognize our great fortune, to pause a moment and appreciate our exquisite privilege. We agreed that true “freedom” was, to us at least, being healthy and able-bodied, running through wild, untouched nature, unburdened (however temporarily) by the complications of modern life and the shackles of technology. We couldn’t and wouldn’t take that for granted.
The big downhill began and so we let gravity guide us like water, drawing us off the ridge lines into the valley below. We tried to flow easily down the path of least resistance, choosing our own individual dance steps within the greater trail. There were sections so steep it felt like skiing, so we made jump turns down the slick and rocky trail, and other parts where the smooth, gentle grade coaxed us into a sprint. The miles went by easily, as they tend to do on downhills. We came out of the trees again much further down and found ourselves at a nice, rocky landing with views of the Gorge and the whole of the Herman Creek Watershed that we’d just encircled. The blanket of clouds was still there, cutting off the peak tops from sight, but we were thankful at least to not be in them anymore. The Hoosier took some pictures and Jonny Bomber and I sat among the wildflowers and breathed the air. It was a fine day, clouds and all.
Then, just like that, after a final downhill on the wide Herman Creek Trail, we were back at the car, a little over 7 hours after starting. We chatted with some hikers in the car next to us, then took off and headed for the Pacific Crest Pub in Cascade Locks for food and beer. Once again conversation turned to how lucky we were, to how lucky and fortunate we all are to have the Columbia Gorge in our backyard. We all agreed that it is one of the most magnificent places we’ve ever been. To drink from its precious waters and tread upon its epic trails, even to be cradled by its tough love, is a privilege not to be taken lightly. We raised our pints to that.
Well, here’s to summer in July! Happy 4th! Now get out and exercise your true freedom (in the mountains)…
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