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North Lake,
Columbia River Gorge |
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Even though I have my own spot in the world's web that some may enjoy, ogle , or laugh at, I often find myself glancing at trips from the past, remembering how I thought and felt. It brings perspective, like a written journal, showing how far I have come, or, not. This year, I want to see with a new mind, using new thoughts, having a new perspective. I ended 2009 a stronger person, a happier person and far more helpful to the less fortunate. In 2010, I need to keep this momentum going. To kick off the new year, a tradition Bobby and I started for ourselves a few years back had to be reborn. An annual winter trip to North Lake, rarely successful and always a day trip, was the plan for this weekend and the plan for the beginning to this blessed year in front of me. Amber had guts to tag along as this was no ordinary trip for me.
For this trip, I was not taking a failed attempt as an option. I knew from past experiences that North Lake was cold, steep, wet, windy, and beautiful. The difference this time was my pack was a scant nine pounds in base pack weight. I was going up to this frosty lake with only the bare essentials, but to still remain comfortable. To make this trip even more challenging, I was taking only down-filled insulated gear. The plan bordered stupidity, but I was still confident and felt there is no way to improve unless I tested my limits. Amber just smiled as she gingerly tossed her five-and-a-half pound pack onto her shoulders.
Spirits were high as small blotches of blue appeared above us, offering a pleasant start. Without a snow line in sight, the still wind, and high 40s temperatures meant things were going better as planned already.
Gordon Creek was flowing quite heavy, heavier than I could ever recall, heavy enough to crest the tops of our boots, so we chose the easier, dryer route across the bridge. The irony, I thought, to the whole "UL gear selection" thing was, although we had minimalist gear, we were wearing rather substantial footwear. The reasoning was simple. I had no clue of what the snow levels were, and we simply did not want to pack snowshoes up 3000 feet, so we opted to leave the shoes at home and hope for the best just wearing GORE-TEX lined boots.
Amber and I reveled in the easy start, taking time to look at everything. The whole area was as still as it could be, interrupted occasionally with the sound of a car racing to somewhere in the distance, but even that faded the longer we hiked. This time of year, the mosses dominate winter's color palette, standing boldly against the remains of fall. The pleasant tang of rotting leaves hung in the air; symbolic of the gorge in winter.
Past the campground, we ducked under the power lines and begun our climb towards the lake. The trail was in great shape as I hoped it stayed this way the entire distance. Amber was happy to be here, happy to have the freedom, happy to be the only one here and reminded me that this was also great training for April.
Climbing up switchbacks, we quickly stumbled to the old boiler that had been there for some time. Amber inspected it, trying to discover more about the remnants. I let her explore while I practiced taking pictures with my Christmas Present.
There are some people I know that live for photography. It is their career, their passion, and it shows in the results that come from their cameras. Although I am learning more every day about how to take a good picture, a proper picture, the art of capturing the true essence of a moment in time takes years to develop.
So far, the trail gave us no obstacles that would make us loathe the 3800 feet gained in four miles, and breaking through the layer of mist only quickened our steps. Every viewpoint meant a quick stop to gaze, pull out an almond Snickers, and talk. Although we were warmed by the climbing, stopping even for five minutes caused shivers to begin.
I saw a small, seasonal creek that hugs the trail at a couple points along its length and had to stop. The water had a story to tell and I was prepared to listen. It could have started as snow, high above where we were now, eventually melting, falling off a lone fir, hitting the forest floor and soaking its way through the soil and rocks, ever slowly seeping its way into a small channel that lead it down, thousands of feet, all the way to the mighty Columbia. And on its route, it met us here, now, just for us to sample.
The clouds over Gifford Pinchot were broken up, offering a dramatic contrast between earth and sky. Really, it was neat to see only peaks sticking out of the violent-looking cloud layers. It gave a foreboding, dangerous, spooky feeling, as if it had no intention of creating a place for the living.
I just stared and watched the clouds make the three and four thousand foot peaks appear as gopher holes in a field of grass. They lifted, sank, swirled, and danced, occasionally blanketing the entire area. The weather was taking a turn for the worse.
Occasionally, the trail bisected ancient slide areas that Amber wanted to fumble around on. I warned her of incoming weather and that we should probably keep moving, but she was undeterred, frowning at me, insisting on a picture. Although she did not look too happy, the smirk on her face was to remind me to slow down and savor our time.
The tails grade increased as we neared the saddle. Amber was getting tired of me pointing out the ridgelines landmarks and huffed on in front of me. I stopped to look around in amazement as this is higher than I had been since 2005. 2005 was Bob's first time at North Lake, but foolishly, I forgot to bring a camera and did not bother recording our trip.
After reaching the saddle, we had a sit and munched on some snacks. It was easy going to the lake from here as we were nearly as high as we would be the entire trip. Incredulously, the saddle was void of snow. In comparison to the feet of snow Bob and I encountered, 2000 vertical feet lower, back in 2007, I shuddered to think of the potential fire danger during the upcoming summer.
We skipped along the ridge, sliding at times, as the melting snow had refrozen into a glass-like surface, filling in the trail all the way to the edges. We could have used crampons, especially when the trail tilted downwards for 50 vertical feet, but we did not have any with us and just slid our way along instead. The ice turned to snow, and the snow got surprisingly deeper. We were not any higher, the forest was not any thicker, yet the snow deepened causing me to post hole, but only to my knees, and just a few times.
Passing fresh bobcat scat that was still sinking into the snow, we ran into ponds created by the surrounding snow melt. There was flagging here and there, but it did not always follow the trail. We were close and that meant singing out loud was necessary. I took the lead as Casting Crowns filled the forest, reverberating back to us, hurting our ears with my poor voice. The crackly music died as we crossed the second fork from North's outflow. The trail was gone and the lake was nowhere in sight. I lost the trail.
Looking around, I thought we had to go up, but I failed to see the trail at that point. We bushwhacked for ten minutes before I danced a jig, telling Amber I knew right where we were and where we had failed to turn upwards. North Lake lie in front of us, mostly frozen over, looking as ominous as it was beautiful. After a quick hug and high-five, the hunt for a campsite began. I could not find the one listed on the map, so we had to improvise, flattening a huge snow mound that was several feet deep in places on the lakes north side. I bought stakes that were ineffective in the snows' condition, so I had Amber hunt for sticks I used as dead man anchors that worked almost too well. With the tarp up, and gear stashed, we dove in just before the rain started.
Amber changed clothes while I fired up my tiny alcohol stove to boil water for noodle soup before wandering around a bit. Although there was very little wind, it was steady and bit through my rain shell with great efficiency. North Lake was not about to let anyone linger around for long.
Our floor that we tamped out was solid, but not flat. We slid around with every movement ultimately towards the lake, but managed. Amber wolfed down two packs of noodle soup before we dove into our sleeping bags for a quick siesta. The rain continued throughout the night, falling gently at times and a brutal downpour at others. The tarp became a condensation station forcing me to awake every hour to wipe down walls that would otherwise wake me with cold sprays of mist.
Morning came and the rain did not care. We had to get back into our wet boots, but the rain did not care. It hammered us all night, but turned into a gentle misting as we packed. The best thing about UL backpacking is the fact that there is so little to pack. After boiling up water for couscous, ten minutes under the tarp was all it took to pack both bags. We scarfed down the couscous before rolling up the tarp. We said our goodbyes to the lake before the cautious tip-toe over the icy trail to the saddle.
Amber was a maniac. Averaging over three miles per hour from the lake, I warned her to slow her pace. She was simply flying as my full downhill pace could not match hers. I had to run to keep up with her at times and on slippery, wet, rock strewn ground, while descending a 22 grade, the danger factor becomes pretty high. She had three falls on the ice, all just slips without incident, but when we were almost to the campground, she took a header while tripping over a rock. I ran up to her to comfort her. She was in tears and frightened, but, amazingly, uninjured. We thanked God for her safety as the accident served to teach her a scar-free lesson. We recovered from the shock while singing all the way back to the truck, once again, looking at everything while walking nice and slow. Success.
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