Bridget's Bodacious Bunchgrass Blowdown Boondoggle

As Randy climbed back into the shuttle van at 9:15 am, he was shaking his head and muttering something about the Donner Party. He had just dropped us off high on a dead-end mountain road and 27 miles of rugged ridgeline trail stood between us and the Brewers Union pub in Oakridge. We were pioneers on this early season recon of the Bunchgrass Ridge Trail, five hardy riders carrying a day's worth of food, water, and basic emergency equipment. We had shunned the long ride our friends were doing in favor of what was bound to be an epic summer day. 

Derrick led the way onto the inviting fir-lined singletrack as the morning sun shimmered through the trees. The remaining four of us eagerly fell in line.  About 40 yards in, we encoutered our first patch of snow. Undaunted, we rolled through it. Soon, the snow patches became more frequent and bigger--steep mounds that were impossible to ride up, so we got our shoes wet hiking up them. The trail starts around 6,000 feet and mostly descends from there, so we knew the snow wouldnt last long. But we weren't fooled by the net elevation loss. We had a series of burly climbs ahead.

Interspersed between snow piles were down trees and snags to climb over. Then we hiked up a steep meadow trail that was only defined by a series of markers and entered the Warner Creek Burn area. Hot and sweaty, we sat down on a log to eat sandwiches and swat mosquitos, noting that we had covered only 6.2 miles in nearly 2.5 hours. Not exactly record-breaking pace. Derrick had estimated our arrival at the pub for 3 p.m. We briefly discussed turning around, but no one took the notion very seriously. Derrick thought we might still make the 3:00 time if the trail opened up and became more rideable. This would be the first of many reassessments of our ETA.

About 10 yards later, we were handing our bikes over a large tree with a tangle of branches that snared spokes, shorts and skin. The trees kept coming and we were walking more than riding. The trail clung to a ridge between two bowls, then descended steeply into the one on the left before climbing steeply back out the other side. Derrick pointed out that this was the last best place to turn around--basically a point of no return--and all but insisted on abandoning our mission in light of the challenges that were keeping our progress to a snail's pace. But none of us were fond of the alternative--retracing our steps back to a forest road and riding it downhill to Highway 58 where we would commence the "pedal of shame" back to Oakridge. 

We all hemmed and hawed and said either way was fine, then Bridget finally spoke out. "I really want to keep going," she announced. Relieved, I chimed in, "me, too." "So do I," said Charlie. Suzanne did not object. Derrick shrugged his shoulders and said, "well at least you can't blame me," then lifted his bike over the 57th down tree. A few minutes later, I was able to coast at least 20 yards downhill before another forced dismount and I yelled "wheee!" with joy. Bridget, who was just in front of me, laughed. It had to be hilarious, otherwise it was a total suckfest.

The steep climb out of the bowl, still mostly hiking and hefting, was rewarded with 360-degree views of Mt. Jefferson, Three Sisters, Fuji, and Diamond Peak. Indian paintbrush and shooting stars were in bright bloom. Derrick nearly became the first Donner Party casualty when he boldly hefted a bottle of Coke out of his pack. We were on him like flies to horse dung. He offered to trade sips of Coke for food and we fell all over ourselves to be the lucky recipient. Derrick wisely opted for Suzanne's sandwich and Charlie whined, " but I want some Coke," when his proffered snack was not chosen. In the end, we all had sips of Coke, thus saving Derrick's life. We made radio contact with our friends on the Alpine/Winberry ride. They sounded rather smug. We laughed, confident that we were having a better time. Based on distance covered (not much) our new ETA was 4 pm. 

From here the trail did become more rideable, with greater distance between fewer fallen trees. But it wasn't long before a stick broke Suzanne's derailleur. Derrick performed emergency trailside surgery and had it working again in no time. As he handed the bike back to Suzanne, her shifter fell off the handlebar. Derailleur repair be damned: she would now be riding a single speed. New ETA: 5 pm. Suzanne had a deadline for being back, so we sent her on a short bushwhack that would put her on a road back to town. One member down, we pressed on. Derrick reminded us of the climb up Hecklerooth Mountain that still loomed ahead. We laughed maniacally. 

The trail descended into old growth fir forest thickly carpeted with ferns. I filled my bottle from a spring that gushed from the side of a hill on Derrick's Deadly Switchbacks. We steripenned water from another spring and snacked again. New ETA: 6 pm. Rhododendron bloomed in an old clear cut just below the summit of Heckletooth. From here, it was a ripping ride to the end of the trail and a couple road miles to the pub. We greeted Heckletooth like a long lost friend, giggling our way down the trail that had a reputation for challenging even the most skilled riders but seemed mellow and laid back compared to our earlier adventures. 

If we knew in advance what the day would bring, we would not have gone, but we were satisfied and tired and giddy with our accomplishment and sported a variety of cuts, scrapes, bruises and lacerations as badges of courage. Actual time of arrival at Brewers Union Local 180: 6:16 pm. Beer never tasted so good!

Photos by Bridget Hildreth

Posing

Today I posed as a runner. I used to actually be a runner, but it's been 8 years or so since then and I've almost completely transformed into a cyclist. I say "almost" because I only own two mountain bikes, a cyclocross bike, and a town cruiser; no road bike and no touring bike. That and I still sometimes wear a Camelback while riding my cyclocross bike on road rides.

But I digress. Today, I left my hotel wearing a running skirt and tank top, brand new Brooks running shoes, and my iPhone strapped to my arm so I could simultaneously track my progress on Strava and listen to music (Bruce Springsteen, The Black Keys, The Gaslight Anthem, and some Gin Wigmore). I trotted down the Guadalupe River Trail past the airport and toward downtown San Jose, looking for all the world like a runner. So much so that I got the knowing smiles, the nods, and the waves from the other runners.

Inside, I felt like a poser. Not really a runner, just pretending to be one for the moment and wondering if anyone would be able to tell. To make it seem more real, I decided to throw in some intervals, sprinting up the short hills and between signposts with slower recovery jogs in between. This effort netted me several personal records according to Strava, at distances from 1/4 mile to 5k.

I was actually starting to feel like a runner! When the occasional cyclist passed, I tried to make eye contact and give the knowing nod that I'm accustomed to--but they didn't recognize me as a cyclist. They thought I was a runner!

At the 3-mile mark, I turned around. My pick-ups were becoming less frequent and intense as my breath was labored and my arms sagged from yesterday's push-up session. The heat was more than my Mayvember-in-Oregon-acclimatized body was used to. When Strava said 6.1 miles, I stopped running and walked the rest of the way back to the hotel. The charade was up. I'm not a runner!

Kill the Alarm Clock

For years I've been a p.m. pilot. In the early days I flew the early shifts and felt chronically sleep deprived and in need of a nap. It didn't take long to discover the pleasure of never waking up to an alarm clock, even though I had to stay up way later than I like to earn the privilege. Now I go weeks or even months without setting an alarm and let me tell you, sleeping according to your body's needs is a beautiful thing.

This month, I saddled myself with a morning schedule, and just two weeks in I'm feeling the effects. I took two naps this week, something I never do when I'm properly rested. This morning my alarm startled me out of a deep sleep at 4:30 and set my mind and heart racing. It took a minute or so to remember where I was and why I had to wake up. Time to make the donuts. I mean fly the airplanes.

My wish for everyone: that you could spend a few months free of the constraints of schedules that force you up before you're ready and responsibilities that keep you up too late at night. That you could experience firsthand the benefits of sleeping until you wake up--energized, well rested, happy and healthy.

Kill the alarm clock!

The Mountain

The Mountain the afternoon before our summit.

The Mountain resides in my back yard. On clear days you can see it, standing tall to the east. I see it almost daily when I'm flying--on takeoff from runway 10R at PDX, it looms large, as if standing guard; on approach from the east, we pass by around summit height; we overfly on north-south routes and get a bird's eye view. In the winter, The Mountain is cloaked in white. Sometimes she disappears for days under a thick blanket of cloud and emerges more brilliant than before. By summer's end, the receding glaciers are apparent and what little snow remains is brown with dirt. Some days, only the summit peak peeks above the clouds.

When I moved to Portland more than 10 years ago, my intent was to stay for two years--the time remaining in my boyfriend's law school career. Portland seemed exotic and perhaps out of my league, but I wanted to enjoy as many of its treasures as I could during my stay. At the time, I was heavy into rock climbing and moving to the Pacific Northwest seemed naturally to lead to mountaineering. At the very least, I should climb the closest peaks.

Somehow time went by. I did plenty of rock climbing in the early days. I hiked a lot. I mountain biked more and more and even started road biking. I learned to whitewater kayak and paddled weekly for years. But I never climbed The Mountain.

In May of 2002, the first spring I was in Portland, The Mountain suffered a climbing tragedy of Everest proportions. Nine climbers were swept into a crevasse just below the summit. Some died, others were injured. Then a helicopter crashed during a rescue attempt. Dozens of climbers set out for the summit nearly every day from May to mid July, but every year you only hear about the ones who don't return.

This year I established climbing The Mountain as one of my main goals for the summer. My friend Mark leads first-timers up every year, so I only had to ask and he put me on his training plan. We hiked steep trails in the Gorge, gradually adding weight to our packs. My work and play schedule restricted my participation in group training hikes, but I hiked on my own and did enough with Mark for him to have confidence in my fitness and ability.

Summit Day: Well, we actually rescheduled summit day due to iffy weather. New Summit Day: Mark picked me up at precisely midnight. I had carefully packed everything on the gear list Mark sent me via email earlier in the week (I struggled with the final item--"props for summit antic photos." I don't do cookie decorating parties, scrapbooking, theme parties, or costumes. I had no idea what to bring. In the end, I settled on my straw hat that I bought in the Badlands a few years back, a tie-dye scarf, and a hand-made sign that read "Summit Fever, Mt. Hood or Bust.") We drove to The Mountain and registered for our climb. Mark sifted through the other climber registrations to get an idea how many people were out that night, party sizes, route choices, etc. He picked a late start time to allow others to be ahead of us, blaze the trail, and provide summit beta on their way down. We set out at 2:15 a.m., 15 minutes ahead of target.

READY TO CLIMB

Mark was yawning, but I felt wide awake. We stopped often to take in the constellations and the Milky Way clearly visible straight overhead streaking north to south. Before 4 a.m. a rosy glow was beginning to appear on the eastern horizon. By the time we stopped at the top of the Palmer Snowfield to don crampons, we no longer needed headlamps for hiking. Mark pointed out The Mountain's shadow to the west as the sun began to rise.

The climb steepened, but our crampons easily gripped what Mark called the "styrofoam snow." It was fairly fresh and perfectly firm but not icy. Soon we crested the lip of the crater--I never realized Mt. Hood had a crater, but being a volcano, of course it does. Pearly spires rim the north side and in the center lies the Devil's Kitchen, a smoldering fumarole who's sulfur smell reminded me of Yellowstone National Park. The sun was still below the mountain, leaving the crater in shadow. I was leading; we passed two young guys making their first climb with their father.

I hesitated at the crater to scout the route up to the Hogsback; a snow bridge to the left of Devil's Kitchen lay perilously close to a smaller fumarole that was melting the snow and leaving the bridge hollow underneath. Mark validated my concern; we stuck carefully to the center and thickest part of the bridge. Now we could see the two routes to the summit--the old Mazama chute to the left of the Hogsback, and the route through the Pearly Gates to the right. There were climbers ascending both routes, but the left side seemed more popular. Two (young, fit, male) climbers were descending as we traversed the slope below the Hogsback and Mark asked about the summit. They were the first up that morning, just at sunrise. They advised against the Pearly Gates route due to potential ice-fall from the cliffs above and noted that traction devices (ice axe and crampons) would be essential.

A short, steep pitch put us on the crest of the ridge that divided the two summit route choices. Above us, a crevasse was beginning to gape open; Mark said it's covered over in winter and opens wider as summer progresses. Our route would keep us well clear of it, but Mark emphasized the need to be aware of the fall line and of maintaining a position that would avoid it in the event of a fall. About that time, a rope team dropped a picket that tumbled several hundred feet down and into a hole below us, giving crystal clear meaning to the term "fall line."

We stashed our trekking poles and took our ice axes off our packs. I followed Mark on a short descent, then up and across a bare section of loose dirt and gravel, then onto a ridiculously steep snow face with not very good purchase. Mark was kicking steps into the snow and I was trying to improve them for the team behind me, but the texture didn't lend itself well to holding the shape. Ascending was easy enough, but it occurred to me that coming back down this would terrify me. I said as much to Mark and he looked at me with alarm. What I didn't know at the time was that these conditions were more challenging than usual for this time of year and not ideally suited to first time climbers, especially without ropes. The typical summit is on what Mark called a "stairway to heaven" that has been chiseled out by previous climbers. The previous week's fresh snow had obliterated the stairway, leaving us a hard surface that required diligent use of all available pointy tools. Adding to the challenge were several teams descending from the summit, kicking hard balls of snow down onto us.

At the head of this slope, the final climb to the summit was up a narrow chute occupied by rope teams descending. There was room to pass carefully and soon I was topping out on the summit ridge with the sun bright in my eyes! It was the Solstice and an exceptionally clear day. We could see all the way to Diamond Peak in southern Oregon, Saddle Mountain in the Coast Range (the mountain range blocked the view of the ocean itself), and Mt. Ranier to the north. The views were stunning, but the wind cold, so we minimized our time at the top, just taking a few minutes for photos.

The thing to remember about mountaineering is that the summit is only half way there and that most accidents occur while descending. This knowledge, coupled with my inherent dislike of going down steep things (my common phrase is "I would go up this thing three times if I only didn't have to go down it!") had my anxiety level high. Most sports I do have solid safety features built in and consequences are fairly benign. Here, the safety features were technical skill and trust in equipment. My skills were newly learned and I barely knew my equipment. A mis-step could easily lead to a fall; an experienced climber died here just last week. But there was no point in panicking or even allowing fear to settle in. I just had to stay calm and focus on the task at hand.

Mark started down the chute first and put a lot of effort into making foot holds for me to use. It was slow going, but easier for me (and the climbers who followed us) as a result. I quickly became an expert at front pointing (down climbing by facing the wall and digging the long front points of my crampons into the snow) and planting the ice axe--usually with the pick into the snow, but sometimes the shaft dug in in the self-belay position. Even when we reached the open slope where Mark was walking down the "steps" we tried to make on the way up, I felt more stable with the front pointing technique. My calves would later punish me for this.

After what seemed an eternity (especially since my bladder had been on the verge of exploding for most of the descent, due in part to nerves I think) we were back at the bare patch of ground where just walking felt safe once again. The rest of the descent was uneventful--we just had to remember to turn around once in a while to admire The Mountain in the glow of the now-high sun.

Finally, I have climbed Mt. Hood.

https://picasaweb.google.com/104314591543358730400/MtHoodSummit20June2012?feat=email#

The Flu

Last Sunday, I was feeling just fine, ripping through the desert on a Kona 29er, savoring my last few hours of warming sun before spending five days in windowless classrooms and simulators in an unseasonable cool and rainy Pacific Northwest. By Wednesday I was down hard with the flu. It always blows me away that the transition from well to ill can happen so fast. The last time I caught a cold, it was the day after I noted feeling exceptionally well. How could I feel so good one day and so awful the very next day?

This time, what started as a niggling feeling in my chest Tuesday afternoon had become chills, aches, tight chest and a hack by Wednesday morning. I didn't even want coffee--a sure sign that things were serious. I resigned myself to a couple days indoors--made more acceptable by the craptacular rain storms rolling through the outdoors--and grabbed a mug of Gypsy Cold Care tea, my robe, and a book, and burrowed into the couch. For two days, I drifted between reading and sleeping, occasionally relocating to the bed and back again. I didn't even want food, a sign that I might, in fact, be very near death.

Friday I woke up with no aches or chills and slightly more energy. I set two goals for myself: 1) vacuum the house and 2)walk the dogs. Easy, right? I mean, I had all day to pull off these two simple feats. By 11 am I had achieved goal #1. Shortly after, I collapsed in bed for a much needed nap. Maybe my goals were too ambitious. Maybe I should be happy with my accomplishments. Nearly three hours later, I hauled myself up, strapped on my boots, and wrangled the dogs into the garage to be outfitted with jackets, harnesses, and leashes, and we trudged our way around the soggy neighborhood. Mission accomplished.

I felt confident that Saturday I would be better. The flu doesn't last forever, right? Well I felt like crap. My chest had developed a rattle that surely must be pneumonia. I began to mentally calculate the number of sick days left in my bank and how much of my savings I would have to spend before disability insurance kicked in. I worried I might faint while walking the dogs. But Sunday came and I was still kicking, even feeling a little stronger with a hint of appetite.

A couple weeks from now, I'll be back on the bike and the flu (which I got immunized against, by the way) will be just a distant memory, but right now I wish it would release it's hold and move on to someone else's healthy body.

Disney Adventures

Scott and I have talked for years about going to Disneyland over Christmas but we never seem to get around to it. We decided to make it our Christmas gift to each other and set aside a January weekend (after the holiday festivities, but well before spring break, in what we hoped would be a quiet interlude).

I found an online deal for a prepaid hotel room and booked it in advance. We took advantage of my flight benefits to hitchhike our way to Orange County where Super Shuttle met us for the long and roundabout journey to the hotel. Disneyland was just a short walk away, so we avoided car rental and parking fees (even the hotels there charge for parking), gas, and the fun of navigating SoCal traffic.

We were unsure whether one day would allow us to do justice to both Disneyland and the California Adventure theme park, so we were thrilled to learn that you can buy single park tickets and later upgrade them by paying the difference back at the gate.

After renting a locker to store our lunch, snacks, and extra clothes, we made a beeline for Indiana Jones Adventure and Pirates of the Caribbean. The Fast Pass system was new since Scott had been there, so it took us a little while to figure it out, but the morning lines were so short, Fast Passing wasn't necessary. We never waited more than 10 minutes.

Tarzan Tree House

New Orleans Square

The Matterhorn Bobsled ride was closed :-(

Two fit adults without the burden of small children and strollers can really cover some ground and by early afternoon, with one Space Mountain ride under our belts and a Fast Pass for another in hand, we felt like we could spend a few hours at California Adventure.

Scott claims to not be a roller coaster guy, but after one trip on California Screamin', he wanted another go. We got a Fast Pass for a later time and set off for the whitewater rafting ride and the Tower of Terror. I had my heart set on Soaring Over California, but the line was an hour long and our Fast Pass was for too late in the evening, when we planned to be back in Disneyland proper. A rare clever idea entered my head--we could enter the "single rider" line and split up for the ride. This meant we waited while they filled seats, then called us to fill in gaps. Worth the effort! But what really took my breath away was cresting the high point on California Screamin' as the sun set over the LA basin.

Mission accomplished in California Adventure, we headed back to Disneyland for our final few hours. We caught the beginning of the parade, then toured some last rides while all the kiddies were lined up to see Mickey. We paused to watch the fireworks before having dinner at Blue Bayou (inside Pirates of the Caribbean). We debated whether to call it a day or use our Space Mountain Fast Passes, a quandary that was ultimately decided for us when the ride shut down due to a mechanical issue.

Our 14-hour Disney marathon was followed by an all-too-early wake-up call for our Super Shuttle pick-up to the airport. Next time we'll be more savvy about the Fast Pass system and make reservations for dinner to avoid the wait. The magic of Disney is not just for kids!

P.S. A couple things impressed us about the inner workings of the Disney empire:

• I was surprised and impressed to see an abundance of healthy snacks throughout the park. We brought our own lunch and snacks, knowing food in the parks would be overpriced, which it was--but snack carts were overflowing with fresh and dried fruit, nuts, yogurt, etc. Of course, we opted for ice cream and popped corn...
• Disney runs a tight ship. They are masters of crowd management. When the parade is about to begin, employees come out of the woodwork to rope off viewing areas and keep foot traffic flowing. They are always polite and friendly, even when firmly telling you that you can't stand in the walkway if you want to watch the parade. They should be awarded a contract to run the TSA.

Much to be Thankful For

Thanksgiving reminds me of all I have to be thankful for:

• A wonderful family who loves me from 2,000 miles away
• A loving boyfriend who has supported me through the ups and downs of the past 14 years
• A job that pays (most of) the bills
• A strong, healthy body
• A cozy home and food on the table
• Lots of great friends
• The good fortune to live in a place where rush hour traffic means wheel to wheel bicycles on the Broadway Bridge or a glance down at the long line of lights on I-5 while on final approach to Sea-Tac
• And as I left work today, one more thing: I'm not flying with THAT guy for Thanksgiving!

Happy to be home for the next few days, chillin' with my boys!