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Tomlike Mountain,
Mt. Hood. National Forest |
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With over a week of my vacation left, I could not waste a minute. Rather than sulking for not seeing Big Bear or Agua Dulce with friends I made along the PCT, I decided to make the best of it, starting with a goal I failed to accomplish almost a year ago to the day. Besides, I had to test out some poles that Grant over at Gossamer Gear gave me. Tomlike Mountain has always fascinated me, being a peak more than an actual mountain. It is the highest point along the Woolly Horn Ridge at 4555 feet, overlooking many other popular peaks and mountains. With the forecast promising better weather than we have had lately, I left at a surprisingly late start. Arriving at the trailhead, I wasted no time in darting down the trail. The blow down was immediately apparent as trees over four foot in diameter were snapped like twigs along and sometimes across the trail.
There was no shortage for water as all the seasonal creeks flowed liberally. Some creeks were rock-hops while others required simple fording. Nevertheless, the life and beauty of the gorge was in full swing. I kept my pace just high enough to make the summit before nightfall while gazing at all the life there was to see.
Something struck me odd while making the climb to Big Cedar Swamp Camp. One of my favorite picture spots had something special in store for me. A tree over three feet thick had fallen through a bridge that has stood the test of time, snapping it in half. I don't like to see things destroyed while hiking, but this did not really count as nature rules out here and the bridge was man-made. I moved on, still humming a song that was stuck in my head from the beginning of the hike.
After passing the camp, I quickly made my way to ford of Herman Creek. As the water level was lower than I had anticipated, crossing via downed trees required very careful foot placement. All major creeks crossed, I soon came to the swampy portions of the trail, caused by the drainage off of the east side of the ridge. The blow down increased, but were easier to climb over, as I gained elevation.
Soon after the swamps, the trail sported over five feet of consolidated snow pack in spots. The only issue I had is when I post holed, up to my waist at times. While in trail runners, the small, icy orbs would fill up my shoes rather quickly.
Fortunately, I did not post hole that often and soon came to the slide area offering me it's 40+ degree talus climb. Really, this is simply a hard class two, maybe three at times, rock scramble. The only worry you have is rolling a rock over your foot, essentially snapping your ankle. The last time I climbed this heap of rubble, that is exactly what almost happened. The rock took off as I had three other points of contact and just lifted my foot up, off the rock edge, in time. You would not think rocks that were flat, weighing over 900 pounds, would start tumbling because of someone's weight.
The snow worried me as a posthole could be a recipe for disaster, so I chose the same line I took last time; along the tree line. About half way up, I swear I spotted the rock that started tumbling last time. Undaunted, I continued with the summit of Tomlike watching me the entire way up.
About 100 vertical feet from the saddle, I hit a snow band and could only plod my way through it. It is a strange feeling to hit snow, at this angle, after climbing up what I had. Luckily, the snow was heavily consolidated ice pebbles and allowed semi-secured footing. In looking down, I could see that Mud Lake was nothing more than a string of water being supplied from the north facing slopes of the cirque.
I made it to the saddle sans drama and searched for the spot I found the last time I was up. It only took five minutes to find since it was the only fairly smooth, flat piece of real estate up here.
Pack dropped and camera in hand, I double-timed it to the summit before the weather erased any hopes I had in seeing it's rewards. The direction was obvious, but the bands of trees that bisected the ridge appeared to make the direct approach more difficult than I had planned.
The climb was steep and quick. Someone, a while ago, seemed to have cut paths into the small tree bands that I ran into during my ascent. These were neat little groves of firs, only about 10 feet tall, with all the greenery at their tops. The thought of camping in such a place did occur to me, but I shrugged it off, convincing myself that I would have a viewless awakening tomorrow.
Only five minutes before the summit, I felt the summit fever I have heard of. Like a robot programmed with a mission, I mechanically stepped up the steep, rocky terrain while the wind increased it's velocity. I left all my gear back at my site, including my wind jacket, and knew that the time at the summit would be short lived. I was not cold, you see. I just wanted to savor my time at the top without getting too chilled as the increased wind assured that not take long.
I made the summit just in time as the clouds were coming in fast. I could almost make out Mt. Hood in the distance. I could not make out Mt. Chinidere, Tanner Butte, or anything else for that matter. I was just too happy to be here even with the darkening skies. The air was fresh, clean and cold as I did not want to stand around too long.
I took a mandatory, albeit goofy summit photo. Still exhilarated from my goal being completed, I traversed the top of the mountain, looking for any abnormalities one would find in such a place, in the gorge; I.e. Indian pits. While coming up with nothing unusual, I managed to stay warm by moving. This gave the clouds time to clear off long enough for a few views, if only local ones.
Tanner Butte came into view way back in the distance as part of the PCT was on the ridge in front of it. I have been to Tanner Butte but once. It was a spooky trip, but a memorable one. I may go there again to do the whole Eagle Creek-Tanner Butte loop. Maybe.
The greatest view I got out of this summit was a close-up of Benson Plateau. I never realized how flat that thing was. At an average of 4000 feet, it sure looked flat, but hiking on it never seemed that flat. I mused on this while, waiting for the clouds to become better or worse.
They became worse, clustering and swirling into something foreboding rain as I grew cold. I surly did not want to be stuck up here during a storm. Cursing the weathermen, their computer models and guessing games, I trotted down the mountain's summit, taking various pictures of things that might spark the perseverance I used to have during my bicycle racing years. I came upon a tree that looked like it had seen better days. It was still living and well, it looked to be in good shape if it weren't for it's twisted and contorted body, telling the tale of many harsh winters here.
Tired, I stumbled back to my camp site and quickly set up my tarp, trying my best to face it's end into the swirling wind gusts that topped 30 miles per hour. It was not that late as the chill convinced me that a fire was in order. I normally do not make fires, especially this high up, but there were no bans or restrictions I could find and the area had a lot of wood remnants among old fire pits.
I gathered up some wood and found a large, flat rock I could use as a base. Tomorrow, after dismantling the fire pit, no one would ever know I had a fire here. I like to use a rock as a base to keep from scorching the ground. I just use the base rock and build up a small eight inch fire pit from there. Normally, I use an Esbit tablet to get a fire started as it takes a minute. As I did not bring anything to get the fire going on this trip, I had to be quite intuitive on where to find wood dry enough to start a fire. It had rained just a day earlier as it had been a wet spring as well. After some timely hunting, I found what was needed and scavenged the remaining wood from the other pits.
Ten minutes and eight matches later, the fire grew into something that could warm me while I had a pre dinner cocktail of rum and hot cocoa. While my Spanish Rice was cooking, billows of fog came in at an alarming rate, ultimately cutting visibility to about 100 feet past the tarp. This did not matter to me as I snuggled within a foot and a half to the fire. I knew that this wood would not pop or shoot sparks as the wood at Silver Star Mountain was the same type; aged and bleached, void of any pitch. I wolfed the hot rice down and followed it up with more rum. Feeling extremely relaxed, I laid on my side and watched the fog folly in the increasing wind, occasionally dosing.
With only a few pieces of wood left, the clouds were now at my elevation and the cold, wet mist blew freely through my camp. I wobbled to the tarp at the late hour of 8:30p.m., unable to stay up any later, letting the wind, shuffling thought the trees, sing me to sleep.
The next morning was the reason why I hike. Again, the meteorologists were erroneous, but this time in my favor. The morning was simply stunning. The sky, a cloudless, deep blue. The sunrise was magnificent as it awoke me at the surprisingly late hour of 8:30a.m.. I slept a fitful 12 hours. That is more that I would ever sleep at home. Awaking to the sun on the tarp, watching the drops form from the condensation on the inside and dew on the outside, while feeling it's healing warmth was almost as great as the striking contrast to yesterday's weather.
I hung my tarp to dry in the sun while boiling tea. I earnestly grabbed the camera, snapping pictures of everything that I could not see yesterday. Mt. Adams came into view as well as the top of Hood. To the left of Adams, I could even make out the decapitated summit of Mt. St. Helens.
I could also see, quite clearly now, Mt. Chinidere's summit. It's summit is a bit higher than Tomlike's and during the summer, twice as easy to get to as well as climb.
With the tarp dried, fire pit dismantled and things packed, I made one last inspection to see if I had missed anything. Satisfied, I shouldered my pack, thinking how nice it would be to have a few more days out here with the weather like it was. I started my descent, following yesterday's route. To me, it always seems easier going up rather than down. Then the thought of mountain climbing popped into my head and it's 80 percent of all accidents that happened on descent. I shrugged and reminded myself that this was not real mountaineering as it was a scramble that almost anyone could do. Carefully, I plodded down the slippery slopes, lined with wet bear grass from the snow fields above. The sunshine allowed me to see that this route was most likely the safer of the two since the trail could easily be seen, leading into the woods, with at least six feet of snow piled on top of it.
Once down, I followed my tracks back out, enjoying the sun shine while whistling all the way. I thought I would make the most of this day as I really did not want to leave so soon. Given the fine weather, I took off my shoes, airing out my socks and played with the local wildlife that seemed particularly interested in me. It was probably the salt covering my skin, but I had to chuckle anyway.
The wildlife was everywhere as I had to be quite careful not to squish the large slugs that seemed to line the trail, oblivious to my presence.
Even the snakes, sunning themselves along the trail, were in the mood for a pose. This one let me get quite close as I did not have much of a zoom with the cheap camera I took along with me.
Spring was definitely here as the flowers were starting their show in areas allowing due sunshine. I stopped for a few moments, watching the bees do their business without complaint and had a think. I thought about my life and what I complain about. The bees had a never ending job, one that was for survival, much like us humans. I mused on this as I cruised effortlessly, back to the truck, enjoying spring and what I have come to believe it means to me.
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