Having done so much Saturday left me too tired to sleep.  Like in an infantile way.  I finally dozed off at one, just five hours before the alarm clock told me it was time to get back into this weekend's groove.  Shower, throw a pack together, and fill water bladders.  These are the perpetual chores that must be done before a hike lasting a day or weeks.  The difference today was the weather as I woke to the mercury level reveling a rather warm 66 degrees.  I figured today would top out around the upper 90's, so I threw on the baggiest shirt and shorts I could muster before speeding off to Bob's house in order to arrive at Jim and Patty's in time for  breakfast.  A speedy hour drive got all of us to the trailhead.  All of us meaning Bob and I  with cameo appearances from Randy Macho-Man Savage and Groundskeeper Willy.  Obviously, the goofiness was well under way!

The trail, phlegmatic to our jesting, gained elevation and gained it fast.  In December of 2005, I did a loop very similar to what Bob and I had planned and I remember how easy the hiking was that day even with all the snow I had encountered.  It seemed more difficult today than in December and I reassured myself that my sluggishness was simply fatigue from yesterday's activities.

This time of year, like all of them I suppose, holds incredible beauty in the gorge.  With seed heads the size of my fist, the lure to make a wish was a strong one.

Thumping my way up the switchbacks, I finally made the viewpoint.  Since 2005, I have been to all the major points I never knew then.  Wycoma Ridge predominated the landscape, hiding Mt. Hood.  The Woolly Horn Ridge that sported Tomlike Mountain rose strong as did Mt. Chinidere.  Clearly visible, surrounding the Woolly Horn Ridge was the Herman Creek drainage leading up to Mud Lake as well as the drainage flowing from Hicks Lake.

A fine view to the west sported the Bonneville Dam Complex surrounded by Beacon Rock, and  the looming Table and Hamilton Mountains.

I daftly found some shade off-trail and had a sit.  In a place like this, thinking is so easy.  It is unobstructed by interruptions or even the thought or planning of such interruptions.  I gazed at the PCT, across the Herman Creek Drainage, for a while while I waited for Bob to catch up.  I pondered if a weekend could get any better than this one had been so far. 

As Bob arrived, we took a glance North and noticed a forest fire had started recently in the Mt. Adams Wilderness.  It saddened me a little, but Wind, Dog and Augspurger mountains were there to cheer me up.  We set off again at a brisk pace and soon ran into the cutoff trail leading to the Gordon Creek trail.  Unlike in December, we took the Nick Eaton Ridge trail to Deadwood.  A bone jarring descent down Deadwood got us to the Gordon creek trail where we stumbled upon the spur to Indian Point.

A slippery scramble down to the ridge gave us access to the end of the spur.  I was trying to decide where to land if one was foolish enough to hang glide off of the ridge.  I stumbled my way to the end of the ridge and found the flattest spot I could to relax while trying to blend my cyclist-having farmers tan.

Soon Bob arrive as things started to get goofy all over again.

The goofiness only lasted a few minutes before Uncle Bobby donned some lighter wear to reflect a few off the sun's rays.  It was super peaceful here now as the earlier visitors left in a hurry.  Probably due to an unplanned and rather boisterous visit from the Macho-Man.

With views for 270 degrees, a light breeze, sleeping pad, water, double stuffed Oreos, and a bag of ice in hand, I slipped into a state of bliss while reading a few pages of Abbey.  I pondered various things like the direction my life it taking since the end of last year.  Although things are so much better than times past, I concluded that the direction has never changed course.  Rather it was freedom.  A freedom to be what was always inside, but was always leery of proclamation.

As the breeze could no longer cool me, it was time to go.  Walking Man was opening in a couple hours and we wanted to get there before the crowds hit.  I dressed and packed my bag, glancing back to admire the views that this pile of rubble offered.

We plodded along in no great hurry.  I clicked away with my camera trying desperately to take pictures that would remind me of this place in time, of this state of mind, of my state of being.  But pictures can only do so much, sadly.

The trees grew bigger as we dropped deeper into the valley.  Some were well over 100 feet high, although not providing a very dense canopy.

Nearly back at the car, I did not want to leave.  Forcefully, garlic-parmesan fries, cold microbrew, and hand made pizza drove me from my wooded sanctuary.

I walked as slow as I could until Bob caught up with me.  "More day hikes." I told myself.  At least, until two weeks when I return for a circumvention of Helens.

Home