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Nick Eaton ridge, Columbia River
Gorge |
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March, already, I thought, as this year is still not unfolding the way I had hoped. But with a flexible weekend ahead, I asked Amber if she wanted to go wander around a bit in the gorge. I had no idea what the fickle weather conditions would be as it had been freezing one day and unseasonably warm the next, so we just prepared for the worst.
Since I wanted a bit of solitude this weekend, I thought it may be possible if I could get up to Nick Eaton Ridge by way of Herman Creek. We were heading for 34 switchbacks, but I did not care. I also did not care that I was grossly out of trail shape, and while in the best cycling shape in years, I came down with whatever everyone else had and have not been on the saddle for 6 weeks. I just wanted to mindlessly plod up some massive hill, letting my brain temporarily go to sleep while my body painfully longed for the sloth-mode I had been in. After passing a nice couple out for a stroll, we stumbled to trail 447 and shoe'd up.
We started up the switchbacks and as the analytical side of my brain went to sleep, the receptive side started taking in what I was missing so badly. Greenleaf peak first came into view wearing colors that you could only see this time of year. The wind was calm and the temperature mild. Although the snow was progressively deepening, the trail was still quite obvious.
We broke out into the first clearing. I had been breaking trail the whole way, and was starting to tire slightly, but not as much as I thought I would have. The snow was just above freezing, meaning it was extremely heavy. With every step, I would pick up a pound or two to carry to the next downward romp. I glanced back at Amber to hear her singing quietly to herself. I turned back to the task at hand, plowing through the deep snow, smiling brilliantly.
At the top of the clearing we pulled out Snickers bars to munch on. We had a long way to go, but the river was quickly narrowing. I had yet to think of where to camp and just figured there would be plenty of spots once we hit the ridge. The best thing about winter backpacking are the endless camping opportunities. If there is enough snow and you bring a shovel, almost any spot could make for a nice, flat place to sleep for the night and sport an abundance of water.
The higher we climbed, the better the views became, even in winter. With the weather systems hovering over the Columbia like they were, I actually thought we may have a chance at a clear night. But Mr. Weatherman boasted the knowledge of future rain and snow, so I must believe.
We made it quickly to the cutoff and romped up the last clearing before I lost the trail. With no signs of cuts or any tunnel through the approaching wall of green, Amber and I took a break. She munched on another Snickers while I scratched my head looking for a way to our destination. Ultimately, I just plowed through the trees, child in tow, to reach a peak at the base of Nick Eaton. We were home.
I stripped off all my layers and wore nothing more than a T' shirt as the clouds broke up. Divided dark-grey plumes with spots of deep blue in between allowed the suns rays to momentarily strike my hard working body. It felt positively invigorating as I dug deeper into the soft snow, eventually digging out nearly 100 square feet of living space. The spot I chose was positively perfect. Without a single widow-maker in sight, it was surrounded by smallish trees that would break up any gusts and digging down three feet on the windward side reinforced the thought of a peaceful nights sleep.
I threw up the tarp using sticks as dead-man anchors. Sporting 51 square feet of living space the new, improved tarp was luxurious. I quickly boiled some water for soup as Amber snuggled into her sleeping bag for a mid-day nap. After eating she conked out for a couple hours while I guyed out the tarp. It was probably overkill, but I was now confident that the thing could handle 60 mile per hour gusts. After the tarp was solid, I thumped around, trying to find the trail before firing up the stove for the long, relaxing chore of making water along with Chicken Teriyaki for dinner. After dinner, night came fast and with it, moonless, clear, black skies. Amber and I laid back with the tarp door folded wide open. Our upper bodies were completely out of the tarp as we snuggled deep in our synthetic cocoons. We stared at the sky's fading light as the stars slowly appeared in a way they only could here, during this time of year. They were incredibly bright, as all the moisture in the air sunk into the valley. She told me this was one of her favorite trips, but it always seemed she said that. Just then, we both saw a shooting star to the east. It was her first. I just knew it was times like this that could not be duplicated back home, quality time, the most important time. 45 minutes later, it was too much for Amber to handle as the sounds of her snoring began filling the area. I closed the tarp with a smile before sleeping for a solid ten hours.
The clear nights were only interrupted a couple times by passing storms and it added up to only a quarter of an inch of snow. The morning was clear, as I thought it would be, meaning everything would be frozen solid. I wanted to walk around to get a few pictures before the humidity level rose, but I was just too comfy in my Polarguard cocoon.
Eventually I did emerge from our frozen tarp. I felt so good about our site selection the day before that I forgot to mention to Amber that our position would also bring us the earliest sun. The camera snapped to life as I sipped on hot chocolate while watching the sun come up and feeling it's warming rays.
I could see the Woolly Horn Ridge this morning as well as the PCT behind it. Normally it is times like this that really inspire me to think, but my brain was numb and I just stood there and reveled in the moment; something that I badly needed and something I should do far more than I have in the last 15 years.
a half an hour was all it took to get Amber up and to strike camp, although 15 of those minutes were spent digging out my now-frozen anchors as they were solid enough to withstand any amount of tugging without budging. We plodded down to the junction before deciding on the longer descent via the Gordon Creek Trail. Amber sang while we crunched our way through the snow stopping often to guzzle water and snack on whatever we had left.
Blue skies were out, but we were heading back home, back into the mists, back to the norm where everything was predictable and comfort was all to easy to achieve. Hopefully, this is the right start of a grand year.
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