Advice From My Father - 9/15/12

Be prepared. I cannot stress this enough. BE PREPARED. Many of my misadventures seem to be so simply because I haven’t been aware of what I was getting into, or the snow hasn’t melted, or the sun went down to early etc… All of these things could have been avoided by being a little more prepared. But the bottom line is that being too prepared denies the hiking spirit of adventure and exploration I so desperately crave. I’ll fully admit there is always a little part of me when I’m out in the woods (and usually in over my head) that imagines the early pioneers and what it must have been like for them. Usually this is motivation for me to push on, dreaming of wild adventures like a five year old. It’ll probably get me killed one of these days, but what the hell. At least I’ll go out in style! No hike taught me the “Know what you’re getting into” lesson, and my lack of preparation, more than Hester Lake.

I knew the hike was six miles. I knew it reached a lake that was supposedly stocked with pan sized trout. I knew it gained 2600 ft. and reached an elevation of 3900'. What I didn’t know (and online research failed to tell me) what that most of the elevation gains are in the first and last miles of the hike, and the last mile isn’t maintained. Ok, that’s a bit of a lie. I did read that last part, but I apparently blocked it from my memory before heading out.

I left very early, about 5:30am, knowing it was a bit of a drive to get to the trail head. Apparently “bit of a drive” translates in real life to TWO HOURS, the last half of which involves a pot holed dirt road. Poor Mucca. I think he was a bit car sick by the end. Although I must say it is one of the prettiest drives I’ve been on, despite the terrain of the road. I was even able to snap a few pictures out the windshield between slaloming divots.

     

When I finally reached the trail head I was shocked to see about a dozen other cars! Dammit! I chose the Hester Lake trail specifically because I was (as always) looking for some solidarity! How can I properly enjoy the woods and fuel my childish spirit of adventure when there are other people around! However my frustration quickly turned to relief after a quick inspection of the other cars revealed they were all bearing the yellow fishing tag on their dashboards, rather than the orange NW Forest pass. That there’s some hard core fisherman in North Bend to travel that far and be out on the river by 7:30am. Not that I should talk… With a new sense of exuberance I began my ascent up the Dingford Creek Trail, smirking in silent smugness that I knew where the real fish were.

The trail starts out like many I have found do (disgustingly) with a series of fairly steep switchbacks. This is always a tough way to start. I’d much prefer to have a half a mile or so to get the moderately old legs warmed up, the pack settled, Mucca’s harness adjusted etc… One of these days I’ll just get over it, but as of now I still find it mildly annoying. It was pretty though, and the varied footing provided as much entertainment as the semi-dense old growth around me.

Much of it was the standard picture of a trail, but it was also rocky at times, narrow and barely avoiding collapsing down the hillside at others, and all the while surrounded by wonderful unique landscaping designed by Ms. Nature. Or should it be Mrs. Nature? I have a feeling her and Father Time have a thing going, but that’s purely speculation on my part.

As the switchbacks dissipated, I found myself staring at a massive ravine, which is the drainage point for Pumpkin Lake. I’ll have to look that one up for a later expedition. With a name like that it’s GOT to be an entertaining hike! There is a massive rock face on the east side (I think that’s east?) that must be navigated carefully. One little misstep and you’ll find yourself in the bottom of a trench having a very bad day. Mucca was a little hesitant, but was pretty easily convinced the best idea was to follow the classic “shut your eyes and run” method that’s worked so many times in the past. Given that it worked again, I’m sticking with it.

Once we made our way across the trail stopped climbing entirely and we were treated to a 3 mile walk in the woods surrounded by lush under growth on the forest floor, several small stream crossings (plus one big one) and mud. Lots of mud. At times it reminded me more of the jungles of Peru than the forests of the Northwest. Not that I’ve ever been there, but I’ve seen pictures, so that counts right? Mu’s paws, and most of his legs, were nice and black before too long, because to him the easiest path always seemed to be directly through the sloppiest parts of the muck.

Thank heavens we had all those streams that needed crossing. The natural bathing had him cleaned up in no time, whether he wanted it to or not. We reached the point where the trail splits between Myrtle and Hester lakes in good spirits and in good time. I decided it was a good a spot as any to take a few minutes to enjoy the scenery and reload on some much needed carbos before making the last push up to the lake. Turned out to be the best

decision I made all day.

The trail again turned sharply upward at a tortuous incline for someone who was already almost 4 miles in, and began a fascinating alternation between more mud, overgrowth, sharp switchbacks, dicey creek crossings, and just disappearing completely. It was becoming more and more common to hope that the hikers before me that were stacking rocks to symbolize “go this way” were doing so in good faith, and not as a cruel practical joke. It’s really pretty trusting of us outdoorsy types to just assume that the flags, diamond reflectors, piled up rocks, or tree carving (all of which I’ve followed) are put there correctly and only with the best of intentions. Although they haven’t failed me yet, so my assumption has to remain that they’ll continue to serve as true and honest guides, and that most of my fellow hikers have had the same moment of “Oh shit. Where do I go now?”

Speaking of fellow hikers, let me divert from my experience for a moment to tell the tale of another hiker I came across. Shortly after two particularly hairy creek crossings, one of which left me with a bruised hip (not to self: don’t try to balance on rocks with muddy shoes) I spotted in the distance a bright orange oversized backpack wobbling slowly back and forth. After a minute or two it came to a halt and lowered. I was closer then and able to see its owner who was obviously stopping for a rest. I was about due one myself so I followed suit, figuring I’d give him a bit of a head start and allow me to continue to enjoy the solidarity I’d experienced thus far. Sure enough after a minute or two the pack began its slow wobble again and drifted out of sight. I gave the guy a good ten minute head start before I stretched my thighs back into action, intentionally taking a slower pace than usual. The ten minute head start did nothing. As I rounded almost the next corner (which opened up into a GORGEOUS alpine meadow; more on that later) here he was again. Sitting and resting. I should have just passed him by there, and to be honest I’m not sure why I didn’t, but I used the meadow as an excuse to go off trail a bit and do some exploring, again giving him a head start. I guess I just felt like it would be bad manners to pass him? I don’t know. He also had an off leash dog running around everywhere which didn’t help because Mucca is reactive to other dogs, especially off leash, and I can’t ever trust that it won’t come running right up to us, leading to a fight and all kinds of hassles. Everything is compounded when you’re miles from civilization and cell service… Wouldn’t you know it, not five minutes later I caught up to him again this time lying on a rock, pack dismounted, breathing very heavy and obviously struggling. My thought was he was having the same experience I was, that being: the difficulty of the trail was more than expected, but this close to the lake I am NOT turning back. Fair enough. With an overnight pack I’d probably do the same thing. You’ve got all day, nothing to do once you arrive, and at least one good nights sleep and rest before you have to make the trek again; only this time downhill and with a lighter load. What amazed me was that after running into this guy a mile from the lake, getting to the lake, spending an hour or so there, and hiking back down, I ran into him AGAIN about a mile from the bottom. This means this guy either gave up with less than a mile to go, or humped it up to the lake and immediately turned around. All with an overnight pack that had to weigh at least 25 pounds. It was huge. On top of that, when I passed him again near the bottom he was (no joke) lying flat on his back in the middle of the trail, grunting with every move. That close to the bottom I figured he’d make it out, but I include this story as a lesson: Dude, know you’re limit. If you haven’t been training for most of the summer, what makes you think you can put on a heavy pack and trek six miles into the woods? Especially at 30-40lbs overweight! Mother Nature doesn’t give a damn about you, and if you die out there, nothing changes other than the coyote’s get an easy meal. She DEMANDS respect when you travel into her territory, and if you’re going to go enjoy it, you better know that ahead of time. Otherwise it’ll be a hard lesson taught to you with often vicious brutality miles and miles away from anyone to help you. Just some food for thought.

Now back to the story…

The Alpine Meadow. One of the most beautiful and elusive wonders of the Northwest. For whatever reason every so often the trees, ferns, and everything else except grass just stops growing in one little area. In this case I’m guessing it’s a snow drainage due to the location, vegetation, and canvassing of last years molded, matted grass on the ground beneath this years new growth. In my experience an alpine meadow is usually stumbled upon, and will literally take my breath away. One thing is for sure, it’s always worth spending a few extra minutes to fully take in its wonder and enjoy. This meadow was no exception. Eventually my daydreaming had to come to an end. After all, I had a lake to fish! With a little complaining from the legs I left the gentle rolling of the meadow and once again headed up the steep trail, less than a mile to go now.

     

     

That mile made me work for it. Steep, rocky at first, and then so overgrown the trail was almost impossible to follow. Luckily Mucca’s lower stature allowed him to follow the trail with ease, tunneling under overgrown vegetation that was reaching out over his head.

I simply held on and let him lead the way. And lead he did. I think he wanted lunch as badly as I did, and believe you me, NOTHING motivates that dog like the prospect of food. I had read that there should be two small ponds just before the lake, and when the first one came into view my spirit lifted.

I’d begun to experience the breaking of it with the “I’m never gonna get there” thoughts slithering their way into my brain. It’s amazing what hunger does. Another hundred yards and I began to see the crystal water, clearer than I ever would’ve imagined. Not a single ripple broke the mirrored surface and nearly the entire ridgeline of Mt. Price reflected down on it.

Most of the terrain was incredibly green except for 3 trees, so close they nearly intertwined, that stood grey and dead. Victims of a lightning storm, no doubt.

I found myself a comfy rock on the lake shore, settled in for a mutual meal with Mucca, and began assembling my pole. I could actually see fish jumping out in the middle of the lake. Maybe I’d get lucky after all! It only took a few casts to realize the odds were not in my favor. Unfortunately my backpacking pole is pretty short, which isn’t exactly conducive to long distance casting, especially when you’re pretty much throwing underhand to avoid snagging in the trees on the shore. I stood there flicking the line out half a dozen times, cursing myself for not bringing a bobber (Be prepared!), not expecting to catch anything… and not really caring at all.

When the area around you is so beautiful it’s hard to be angry at anything, and hard not to just decide to stay forever. But alas, eventually all good things must end, as must my visit to Hester Lake. Groaning, creaking and stretching I stumbled my way back down the trail. Twelve miles is a long way on flat land, let alone vigorously hiking up and down a mountain. By the time Mucca and I returned the car we were both visibly physically exhausted. It was nearly 5:00pm, and the trip had taken almost 9 hours,

less than one of which was sitting lakeside. The rest was spent pounding sore toes and tired knees one dragging step after another and forcing my will against the trail to continue on. Totally worth it. I’ll be back again next year, this time sans dog (won’t put him through that again!) and equipped with an over night pack. Something tells me the smell of fresh fish cooking over a campfire while watching the sunset over Mt. Price is a lifetime event I’d hate to miss.