Sleeping On Snow

John Steinbeck wrote, "Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen." I thought about that as I hobbled down the stairs the morning after skiing for the first time this season. Nineteen runs through thick, heavy snow were in the books, and my legs were feeling every page. So, what in the world made me think pulling a 25 lb sled with another 20 lbs on my back through the same thick sludge up the side of a mountain would be a good idea? Rabbit ideas, that's what. One good idea, and suddenly, I think have a dozen.

The challenge hit immediately. My legs, already tired from skiing, screamed with my first step. My sled, with two tie-down straps wrapped tightly around it, had zero glide. Pulling it by hand was a ton of work and quitting crossed my mind, fervently, for the first mile. In fact, I almost did quit a couple of times, but was lucky enough to realize what I wanted just slightly more than quitting was success. I visualized the lake not my car. So, I trudged on with the mantra one foot in front of the other for hours. I'd set a small goal, force myself to reach it, then do it again. Sometimes I only aimed for a spot two trees in front of me. Five feet of trail. That's how hard pulling that deadbeat sled was. But eventually, something happened. The going got easier, my goals grew further apart until they disappeared completely, and I made progress.    

                                                                   

    My hiking partner had been smiling the whole way, 

 so eventually, I forced myself to smile too. 

It helped. By smiling, I recognized that I was happy. Happy to be me, in the woods, and on this trail. Happy to be under the sun and the tall trees. Happy to be in the snow with my dog, the cold air biting at us, reminding me just how alive we were. I drank it all in and continued on. For we were almost there. 

Then, the last half mile hit. The half mile that was supposed to be cake. The half mile of downhill coasting. The half mile when I lost my load a total of six times and my mind six times more in frustration. Perhaps I was tired and not tightening the straps correctly. I don't know, but I do know it was hugely exasperating and I was done. Fini. Cooked.  

But isn't that precisely the moment we find otherwise? The moment we find some untouched batch of strength that carries us to the goal line? So, I swore and I cursed and I reloaded that sled over and over until finally, I made it. I was at the lake.

Once there, I found a handful of snowshoers and cross country skiers ready to watch me with interest. I also found a lot of snow. Between the two, I immediately lost all confidence. I believed I had no idea what I was doing. What if I couldn't get the tent up in all the snow? What do I do about a fire pit? Would our water keep from freezing in my sleeping bag without me in it until bedtime? I had snow-camped one other time when there was maybe six inches on the ground and much warmer temperatures. Here, I guessed, lay three feet. Everything was covered. I texted my partner, Kimi, and said all I wanted was to be home. I feared I was in over my head. Plus, all these people were watching me like I knew what I was doing. Essentially, she responded with, "That sucks" and "Can you go back to the car?" That's when I knew Wisdom and I were there whether we liked it or not. There was no way in hell I was dragging that sled back to the car. My hands ached from pulling it and I had rope burns on both thumbs. No. We would be sleeping on the snow no matter what. Might as well get to it, I thought, and I began to make the woods our home. About that time, three of the nicest people stopped to say hello. I expressed to them some of my doubts about the night ahead. They were supportive and so excited for Wisdom and I to be out on such a great adventure, and their positivity was catching. I became excited again too. I got the tent up and knew Wisdom and I would be fine. But I have to work on that confidence thing and not be so quick to discredit and discourage myself. We can do the things we dream.   

I spent some time digging out the fire pit and finally got to rest and savor camp. The day hikers were gone and Wisdom and I had the woods to ourselves. With the fire crackling at my feet, I enjoyed a hot dinner, a mug of tea, and whiskey with the moon. 

But night comes early in the winter mountains and by 730, it had been dark for three hours. With the fire nearly out and the cold creeping in, the time was right to call it a night. I tucked Wisdom into a down jacket I'd brought for her and supplied her pockets with hand warmers. She was asleep in minutes. 

It took me a bit longer. My legs ached and the tent was cold. Sometime overnight, however, I noticed the temperature inside the tent had increased. Eventually, I figured out it was snowing. My tent now had insulation! The next morning, I was curious to know how much. 

Almost 4 inches had fallen, it was still coming down, and breakfast in bed sounded good.

Without delay, I crawled back in the tent and boiled water for tea and oatmeal in the vestibule from my sleeping bag. The heat from the stove warmed the tent providing the perfect ambiance for a 5 star breakfast. Happy and proud of myself and Wisdom for doing something that took some guts, I began to think what I would change the next time- an improved sled set-up (one that hitches to my body instead of having to pull it by hand), more wood to be able to stay out longer, and a gas lantern for light and warmth inside the tent at night. I almost couldn't wait!

Just before lunch, I broke camp and we started for the car. The hike back was easier because it was mostly downhill, but still, that sled lacked all glide. Not once did it bump up against my snowshoes. Oh well, I wasn't failing now. Wisdom, bounding down the trail in front of me, appeared ready to climb another mountain. 

Next time, she's pulling the sled. 

Who Says Camping Is A Summer Sport?

From below the bottom bunk in the guest room, tucked behind a large plastic bin filled with kayak paddles and ultralight cookware, came a beckoning. Cautiously, like the sound of hope when it's first forming, something called to me. That something was my tent. 

Immediately, I thought: Great. I haven't camped in awhile.

Then I thought: That's because it's January. 

Pshaw. One can't let things like extreme temperatures and the possibility of hypothermia stop one from having fun. Besides, I'd been wanting to do a backpacking trip in the snow for awhile, so the timing of my tent's beckoning was perfect. First though, I had to find out if there was any snow. While much of the country, especially the Northeast, had been breaking records with their amount of snowfall, Oregon, and specifically Mt. Hood, was experiencing a snow drought. For example, we hadn't had any significant snow since right before Christmas. Clearly, I needed to assemble a reconnoissance team for snow level information, and as luck would have it, two friends were coming into town the following week. Friends, who for whatever reasons, tended to say yes to my ideas and often believed I knew what I was doing. Well, one friend anyway; Meg rather quickly vetoed snow camping and opted to stay home with the hot tub instead. However, she did agree to hike out with us the day before our trip to gauge the snow. Camping in the winter requires a lot of gear and I intended to supplement our backpacks with a sled full of it. However, first I needed to be sure the white stuff was on the ground for pulling a sled with no snow didn't sound very appealing. 

In addition to checking out the snow conditions, I also wanted to cache firewood. Knowing nightfall and the cold would come early, I understood we would need a fire unless we planned to be in our sleeping bags at 5:30 when evening and the temperatures plummeted making for a very long night in the tent. True we would be in the forest with wood all around, but it was also true that winter, delicate as it was this year, had come to Mt. Hood and said wood would likely be covered with snow. I had no experience starting a fire in the snow with wood that had spent the previous three months soaking up precipitation. No, we needed dry wood while out there in the backcountry, alone under the stars and convening with nature, so we stopped at the grocery store and got some.

Diana, Meg, and I at the trailhead

The next day with backpacks stuffed with timber, we started out on the Pacific Crest Trail- the very trail Cheryl Strayed herself walked years before in search of herself and the meaning of life. A heavy undertaking to be sure, but every time we slipped on a patch of ice or once again adjusted our many layers of clothing, the fact that Strayed did her hike in the summer when the trekking was easy wasn't lost on us. I'm sure some of you are thinking, yeah, but Cheryl Strayed hiked 1,100 miles; you guys only hiked eight. Please. We hiked in fake UGGs and snow pants. We pulled a sled and carried packs. We made yellow snow. Cheryl Strayed was in shorts and a t-shirt. Someone helped lighten her pack along the way. Furthermore, she skipped the snow. So, don't let the mileage fool you.

Meg, gamely carrying firewood for us.

Once we reached our destination, we considered whether or not to cache our wood for the night. Upper Twin Lake looked like it'd been deserted for days, but still, we felt it prudent to hide our only heat source just in case someone else planned to hike to 5,000 feet in elevation on a Wednesday night in January to camp for the night. Certainly, we didn't need anyone to spot our wood and conclude that the forest service had begun a new program in which they left bundles of dry firewood around Mt. Hood specifically for the convenience of winter campers, and therefore, burned it. So, we hid our grocery store wood under a mess of downed brush and hoped we'd see it the following day. Snow camping rule #1743: Don't take any chances with your firewood. 

Wisdom agreed.

By the time we finished making our wood the most stealth wood on the mountain, the sun was starting to set over Twin Lake. The reconnaissance trip a success, we snapped a quick picture and took off for the car. We still had to go home and go through gear for the actual Snow Camping Trip the following day. Now that we knew there was snow we felt more comfortable calling it that. 

Going through gear is one of my favorite things to do. When aiming to keep a pack between 22-25 pounds, it's a fun challenge to choose what's coming into the backcountry and what's staying at home from the comfort of the couch. I love examining each piece of equipment, considering its purpose, and determining if it makes the cut. If you don't already have a hobby that requires going through gear, get one. There's something extremely satisfying in the tangibility of choosing exactly what you think you'll need to accomplish your goal. I bet it's less than you think. Plus, you get to buy stuff. A lot of stuff.  

With gear sorted and packs packed, we left the comforts of home and hot tub the next day. Diana looked blissfully happy, Wisdom looked ready for adventure, and I don't know what I looked like. Maybe someone who could've used more sleep? At any rate, we were off.

At the trailhead, we loaded the sled and donned our packs. The sled was necessary because winter camping required an entirely different set up. The tent was sturdier; therefore, bulkier. The sleeping bags were rated to 10 degrees and bulkier too. Our sleeping pads had a high R-value; therefore- you guessed it- bulky. Our clothes were bulky too. Everything required space and lots of it, including our alcohol stash. After all, who knew if the wood we hauled up the day before would still be there, and we needed something to ensure our warmth.

An advantage to snow camping: no bugs. Another advantage: snow camping provides solitude and inspires a sense of accomplishment; it encourages one to trust in their own survival skills. Their own survival skills and the lucky star they were born under, that is.

Despite a couple of sled mishaps and downed trees, we soon had our lunch eaten and the tent pitched. Life was good in the snow. 

We spent the afternoon sipping whiskey, walking in the woods, and trying to get award winning photographs with our phones. What do you think? Did we get one?

As night fell, we were happy to find our wood where we left it. After an incredible amount of persistence, determination, and downright will, we got a fire. I tell you- it's no easy task building a fire on ice covered rocks in what was essentially a dug out snow bank in below freezing temperatures, but we did it. And it was delightful. 

As was our crab chowder cooking in the kitchen.

That night in the tent, we both felt the cold, but it wasn't too bad and didn't last too long. The key to being a happy snow camper, we decided, is having the right clothing. As they say, "There's no bad weather, only bad gear." 

We woke up the next morning feeling proud that we tried something new, something that few people do. Snow camping had been on a back burner of mine for awhile, but I could never quite pull it together. This trip reminded me of something I hadn't thought about in awhile: life is long and our best dreams sometimes take what feels an eternity to happen, but when their moment arrives, you know. You hear that tiny voice with its fledgling hope calling to you, softly at first as it takes hold and gains steam, eventually, consuming your being in the best possible way. And if you're lucky enough to have a friend who says, yeah, I'll come chase down your dream with you, know it will only be all the sweeter. 

My Mantra: an homage to Discovery's Naked and Afraid

The mark of summer's end, the Monday of Labor Day weekend, and most people were driving out of the woods. I was driving into them. For miles, my road trailed asphalt until the blacktop gave way to gravel, and finally, to water. Someone once said, "Of all the paths you take in life, make sure some of them are dirt." I would suggest making sure some of them are water too, for magic lives along the trail, certainly, but it is in the lakes, the shimmering rivers, the vast oceans that connect us all where magic is born. 

Setting out in my kayak, I hoped for some magic. I was about to spend four days on a lake mostly alone. Before this trip, I'd never loaded a kayak, or any boat, with the intention of having everything I'd need for a multi-day stay in the woods. The next four days would bring magic and more, and prove once again that luck loves the unprepared. Mixed in with the fun and excitement of a new adventure was moment after moment of learning opportunity. Killer winds, big waves, wet clothes, poor packing, black and blues (including one along my ankle that is still there), thoughts of capsizing, capsizing, loud booms just before 3 am one night (Gun shots? Cannons? Pirates planning to plunder my freeze dried raspberries and granola?), and a relentless Steller's Jay who seemed to want my measly stash of food more than I did most days made for an adventure that, at times, exceeded everything I anticipated. However, I would not be beaten. You see, I had a mantra. One I developed while sitting in the setting sun watching the warm shirt in which I planned to sleep hang from the makeshift clothesline dripping droplets of golden water after yet another mishap in the kayak. Predicting a cold night ahead, I told myself, "But, I'm not naked, I'm not afraid, and I don't have maggots coming out of my butt." The rest is negligible when you look at it that way, isn't it?

In the future, when having a bad day yourself, give that mantra a try. I bet you'll find that it really puts things in perspective. 

Satire aside, the trip was incredible. Despite, and because of, my many errors, the four days on Timothy Lake were some of the best of the summer. See why.

My launching point. Shores and more await. 







A novice to boat-in camping, and specifically, kayak camping, I questioned how all those bags of gear would fit into my 13'9" boat. The two hatches that seemed decently sized at home suddenly became much smaller, and I began to consider what I was willing to leave behind.






Nothing, apparently.  With a few items bungeed on deck and more tucked between my legs, I headed to the northern side of the lake. From the water, I spotted what seemed a stellar spot to camp. With only one way to know for sure, I went ashore.
The site, in addition to having space for my boat, an established fire pit, and a lack of neighbors, also had a room with a 180° lakefront view.









Seemed worth parking the luxury liner, for sure.
After setting up camp, I took an evening paddle just before sunset that chilled my feet, but set my spirit ablaze. The day birds were gone with the sun and the nighthawks had not yet woken to the night. The moment was mine. Across the lake, the developed campground began to flicker, but the fires were few. Summer was ending. Still, the flickering light woven with the musty scent of the lake served as a beacon to something wilder, more native. An instinct, primal, ancient, and mostly dormant, awakened, and for a moment, I felt as wild as the night. A great horned owl alerted the darkening world to her presence- with the night comes a changing of the guard- and I found myself smiling one of those deep smiles that you feel in your legs, your stomach, in your soul- the kind of smile that says you are exactly where you ought to be.

The next morning, fog hung heavy and seagulls called from the clouds. Fish jumped and I made tea. From the water's edge, I watched the fog lift. Watching fog is like scaling back a painting stroke by stroke to see what lies beneath, to find that the canvas is never fully blank.
When the fog lifted and the morning's canvas was revealed, Mt. Jefferson peeked from the south and a congregation of Mergansers skimmed the lake in search of an aquatic breakfast of algae and snails. 









Feeling hungry myself, I, too, found breakfast. As I boiled water for the granola, I noticed I had a visitor, and a bold visitor at that. My brave, yet uninvited guest showed no fear in dive bombing my food bag, bowl of cereal, or whatever else caught its eye. I would not eat in peace for the remainder of the trip. At every meal for the next three days, my unwanted company would stalk and continually try to outsmart me in an attempt to steal my food. Persistent and relentless, it forced me to keep my bear bag hung day and night. Not for bears, mind you. No, it wasn't a 600 pound, sharp-toothed wild animal that kept my bear bag in the trees, but this, a little 4 ounce featherball, that would gladly have taken my thumb off if it meant getting a chunk of cheddar cheese too. I mean, look at that face. That is the face of war. 

I was to have more visitors that day, but these were expected, and likely a lot nicer than the Jay. For example, they probably wouldn't steal my food. My visitors, long time family friends from Vermont, were coming by foot and by boat, and I couldn't wait. I hooked a bright blue life jacket to a log in the water in front of my camp to serve as a marker for those coming by water, and hung a towel to a tree for those on foot. Unfortunately, my towel was green.

I have smart and observant friends though. The markers didn't go unnoticed, and we longtime/onetime Vermonters were reunited on Mt. Hood. We hoped to spend the afternoon the way we always used to in Vermont- swimming, boating, and being together by the water, but just before they arrived, a wind kicked up from the west. Whitecaps leapt across the lake, and the wind seemed to blow directly across the water and into my site. Instead of bathing suits, we wore jackets. Instead of paddles, hiking shoes. Still, it was a great afternoon. Too bad I don't have any pictures to prove it.


Later in the day, and after my friends left, two things happened- the wind died down some, and I realized I came out here partly to become familiar with my new kayak. So, in the water the boat and I went- quite literally, as it turned out. Before capsizing, however, I had another wonderful evening paddle. The stretch of shore from Meditation Point on was mine without a neighbor in sight but for an eagle perched high in the trees and mergansers on the rocks. The wind blew warm and the sky turned pink. 

When the wind began to pick up again, I paddled back to camp. Knowing I had a rocky beach landing with more rocks and logs lurking under the water, I didn't want to come in too fast and crash my new boat (some of you may remember the snowmobile incident). I tried to compensate for the wind with balance and precision. I must have over-compensated, though, because the next thing I knew, I was coming up for air, flipping the boat over, and pulling it to shore. My first wet exit.   

With the shirt I planned to sleep in hanging in the last of the day's sun with no hope of drying in time, the wind blowing cold into my campsite, and the Steller's Jay casing my bland and uninspiring dinner, I chided myself for packing so poorly. Then I thought of Naked and Afraid, maggots, starvation and fear, and I came up with my mantra. For I wasn't naked, I wasn't afraid, and I certainly didn't have maggots anywhere near my butt. Life was good! 

The following day was windy, but beautiful. I pushed off from shore and headed out for a good, long paddle. My boat, an Eddyline Samba, lived up to her name. She danced with the waves, and if I timed it right, surfed them. Mt. Hood provided the perfect backdrop.

After playing in the waves and the wind for awhile, I felt confident heading back to camp. I believed I knew my boat and understood her rhythms, and I wasn't the least bit concerned about over-compensating. Perhaps I should have been.

Clothes in the dryer after a second wet exit. These low profile boats are tricky!





On the last day, the wind seemed to be blowing harder than ever, and by the looks of it, I would be taking waves broadside. I loaded my kayak the best I could in terms of weight and balance, but mostly I just hoped for the best. As I set out for the car, the first wave came over the deck. I was sorry I'd forgotten the bilge pump at home. When the second wave came over, I hoped I loaded the boat properly, the way the books said. With the third wave, I promised myself that if I got back to the car with all of my gear intact, next summer I would load the boat on the very first nice day, take it out on the lake and practice rolling. I wasn't scared for my life or anything like that, but I was a little concerned about my brand new boat and all of my beautiful backpacking gear being swamped at the bottom of a very deep lake. But like I said, luck loves the unprepared. Plus, there's magic in these waters.    

Ski to Tent (from 7300 foot elevation to 1800)

The Ski to Tent Event!

Blooming trillium poked from the ground. Varied thrush, back from the valleys, called once again from the forest floor, and the river rushed by gray with silt and the promise of spring on its back. Thirty miles up the road spring skiing was at its best. There are days in April that are simply too spectacular, too wonderful, too beautiful to go inside. A plan was needed. Soon, like so many things under the spring sun, one was hatched: The First Annual Ski to Tent Event. If the weather held, I would ski from 9-12 on Saturday, return home, grab my backpack and Wisdom (the dog not the smarts), and hit the trail by late afternoon for an overnight hike along the Salmon River. To merge skiing with backpacking seemed adventurous and a bit out of the ordinary for me. Typically, my seasonal sports do not associate. 

With a predicted overnight low of 40 degrees, I was reminded that it may be spring, and very well April, but it's still Oregon, and still Mt. Hood. A cold night would mean a long night, and with dry tinder and firewood hard to come by in the woods this time of year, Wisdom and I left the trailhead late Friday afternoon with two packs stuffed with firewood to cache along the trail somewhere.  

Guess who got to carry them both? 

Let's just say Wisdom isn't named Wisdom for nothing. 

We hiked in a couple of miles, exchanged pleasantries with a few day hikers, and didn't spot a single backpacker. Pleased at the possibility of being the only ones out there the following night, I unloaded and hid the wood in a tree hollow near where I hoped to camp. There's something about giving a wave to the last of the day hikers that excites me. When their packs disappear down the path for the final time, things, somehow, become wilder yet more peaceful; solitary, yet more connected. You understand that the old growth trees know this in the way things like this are known. As do the fish following ancient waterways in the river below. You understand it's you who must relearn the rhythms of the forest.  
     

Much to Wisdom's disappointment, we didn't stay out very long. It was back to the car to go home, sort gear for both skiing and backpacking, and get to bed early for the first ever Ski to Tent Event!

The following morning, arguing crows outside my window woke me before my alarm. A bluebird sky stretched in all directions. Directions like down to my toes and out to my fingertips. You know the kind of excitement I mean. I downed some yogurt and a banana, threw my ski equipment in the car, and told Wisdom to rest up for later. The day was underway.

Mt. Hood from the parking lot at Meadows Ski Resort

On the lift for first tracks

With spring skiing, you never know what you're going to get. The conditions are variable, just like the weather. The first few runs were like skiing on concrete, but the snow was amazing once it softened. The black and double black runs kept my quads burning and skis turning. From about 10:30 until 11:15, Heather Canyon had some of the best skiing of the season. The snow was forgiving and fun. The kind of snow that makes you feel like a hero banging out turn after beautiful turn down the empty canyon walls.

The morning, and the ski, of the Ski to Tent Event sped by, and before I knew it, I was back at the car. Instead of my skis turning, it was my mind turning now. Driving home, I ran through my checklist several times for backpacking. Mainly I wondered if I packed enough (and the correct) layers for spring camping. Having never camped so early in the season in the mountains before, the truth was, I didn't know.   

After lunch and a quick dip in the hot tub, Wisdom and I were at the trail head ready for the next leg. 

 Note the t-shirt and overall warm weather look

Now note that the days may grow longer in April, but spring itself still sets early. It wasn't long before I broke into the cached firewood, and the extra clothing too. 

By the time the sun set, I had on wool socks, wool long underwear, soft shell pants, a t-shirt, two long-sleeved wool shirts, and a wool hat. Before crawling into my sleeping bag a few hours later, I added fleece pants, a down jacket, and lightweight gloves. However, the gloves made me hot. I got a kick out of that. All this down, fleece, and wool, but it was the cotton gloves that tipped my internal thermometer. Once I took them off, I was the perfect temperature for a night in the woods in April. You know the problem though? Eventually, I would have to emerge from my warm little cocoon.

When that inevitable moment arrived the following morning, I went straight to my trusty alcohol stove and got some water boiling for tea before anything else.

I would proceed to drink three cups before even thinking about breakfast or a fire. However, I found that a little chill when drinking tea at the river's edge with your dog at your side is actually quite tolerable.  

(Speaking of the dog and for those of you wondering, I checked on Wisdom throughout the night to be sure she was warm enough. Each time I woke up, she was either making happy dog noises or sleeping soundly. No problem there.)

The morning was cold, but pretty. Wisdom and I went for a wildflower walk and spotted wild calla, glacier lilies, trillium, western buttercup, and many other early bloomers that I can't name. Sunlight flowed downstream into our camp. 

After awhile, the Ski to Tent Event came to its natural closing. I slowly packed up camp happy to have gotten out so early in the season and pleased to have completed the goal, although I didn't feel as accomplished as I thought I would. I think it's because the event wasn't as challenging as I anticipated. I'm already thinking about next year and what to do to increase the difficulty. Certainly, we had a good time though, and I can tell you that someone definitely didn't want to come home.