Monday – Sept. 13, 2021
- Start Point: North of Ramona Falls
- End Point: Cap Cloud Saddle
- Today’s Mileage: 15 miles
- Total Distance on Trail: 25 miles
So….I went to bed last night mentally kicking myself for forgetting my stove at home. I hadn’t been overly hungry after hiking only 10 miles yesterday. But the idea of eating nothing but my pre-packaged snacks for the next few days wasn’t really satisfying either.
After a meager dinner (of a granola bar and Reese’s peanut butter cup), I trying to focus on something else while sprawled out in my tent to read the paperback book I’d carried out here.
As dusk slipped into night, I soon realized that this wasn’t really an ideal way to entertain myself. I struggled to read the paperback’s small font in the dim light of my headlamp, and my hands quickly turned to ice while holding my book outside my warm quilt. It took me less than an hour before I finally accepted that my experiment was a flop.
From now on, I’ll just stick to reading via the Kindle app while I’m out backpacking. I’m already carrying my iPhone, which eliminates the extra weight of packing a paperback book. And my phone’s backlit screen is way easier for my eyes to read in the dark. Not to mention, reading on my phone means I can save my headlamp’s battery for what it is intended for (i.e., finding somewhere suitable to pee after gets dark).
Around 9 pm, I finally tucked my book away for good and snuggled deep into my quilt to get some rest. Then, about 20 minutes later, I was just starting to drop off to sleep when someone suddenly shone their a flashlight or headlamp directly at my tent!
I immediately sat up on my air mattress. The footsteps stopped and their person’s light went back and forth scanning the length of my tent. Then they seemed to wander off away from me with their feet crunching on the fine dirt and rocks.
In an instant, I was drawn back to my Appalachian Trail thru-hike. In May 2019, a mentally unstable guy stabbed several AT thru-hikers without any provocation. And even though this attack occurred several hundred miles north of my location, a tinge of fear resonated up and down the AT as we all realized how vulnerable we were at times. Even in the company of other hikers, danger could still find us to the backcountry.
Now, as I lay in the Oregon forest all alone, my skin prickled with fear. Had that person been deliberately coming toward my tent? Had they just pretended to leave? Was I in danger?
This was one of those moments when I was immensely grateful that I always hike with a bottle of pepper spray. I breathed shallow breaths and reached out to make sure I had a firm hold of the small canister as I waited to hear more footfalls or see if the beam of light returned.
Pepper spray wouldn’t protect me from an attack, but it might give me an extra 10-15 seconds to get away in an altercation.
The woods were completely quiet, and nothing more happened for the next ten minutes. Then it was quiet for ten more minutes, which allowed me to finally relax and released my death grip on my pepper spray.
In the end, I came to the conclusion that the light it was probably just someone out night hiking. They probably didn’t realize someone would place a tent that close to the trail to take advantage of the level-ish spot there. The hiker was probably just following the Ramona Falls Trail on their way back to the trailhead.
Yet, this unsettling encounter left me with to some pretty restless sleep punctuated with bizarre, frantic dreams throughout the night.
Camp to Muddy fork
When I woke for good around 6:40 am this morning, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the overnight temperatures only fell into the upper 40s. I’m a cold sleeper, and I packed my 0°F quilt with the expectation of freezing whether on this early autumn hike. But right now, I was quite toasty warm in my tent.
Despite my relative comfort, I still missed having my stove around for breakfast. I really wanted to sip a nice, steaming hot cup of coffee with breakfast. Instead, all I got was two packets of oatmeal mixed with cold water and a cup of cold, gritty instant coffee. Less than satisfying, for sure.
After breakfast, I snuggled back down in my quilt and read my paperback instead of breaking down camp right away. I figured I’d just enjoy myself. I wasn’t in any sort of rush this morning. This Timberline Trail adventure was supposed to be relaxing, and I only had 15 miles to hike today.
After an hour of reading and savoring the warmth of my quilt, I figured I probably needed to actually get moving. But first, I wanted to re-inventory my food to make sure I wasn’t going run out of food. If I didn’t have enough to get through the next two days without a without a stove, I’d need to bail on the rest of the trip now. It was only 10 miles back to the car from here.
In the end, I felt convinced I wouldn’t starve out here. I only had 30 miles left to go and I’d packed enough snacks to make some substitutions. Besides, I’d probably be done by early to mid-afternoon tomorrow. It would be ok, I assured myself. I wanted to continue around the Timberline Trail and complete the loop.
Just as I was starting to break down camp and pack up my stuff, a couple of hikers came by with matching backpacks and stopped to talk and ask me about my tent. Did I like it? What type was it? And so on…
As I continued packing, our conversation switched to the detour ahead and how far we might get today. I was shooting for Cloud Cap Saddle, but they were hoping for a much more leisurely day and only planned to go half as far.
After 10 minutes of chatting, we’d exhausted the perfunctory topics of gear, the trail closure, and our respective mileages and they left me to finish my packing.
As they walked down the trail, I deliberately let the the duo get a good bit ahead of me before tossing the final few items into my pack. I wanted a bit of solitude this morning because all my best thoughts and deliberations seem to hit me during my first hour on the trail.
Two miles later, I merged back onto the PCT to begin the detour up to Bald Mountain. But before I could climb the steep mountain, I’d need to get across the Muddy Fork River – my first water crossing of the day.
After yesterday’s super easy water crossings, I was expecting another shallow river that I’d be able to rock hop across. The Muddy Fork was NOT that kind of river. It was caramel brown and the water was moving fast! The edge of the trail dropped off sharply toward the water, and the river’s opaqueness meant I couldn’t see how deep it was. Nonetheless, I estimated its width as at least 15 feet across.
Lucky for me, I was currently on the well-traveled PCT, and the forest service (or a trail crew) aligned two giant fallen trees across the river like a bridge. There was a healthy 4-foot gap between the bottom of the logs and the water rushing below though. So one wrong step would land you – and all your gear – in the freezing cold river. But it was still a bridge across that would keep my shoes dry.
The couple I’d talked to this morning were already in the process of inching themselves across to the opposite bank. So I stood at the edge of the trail, with my attention riveted to their feet – watching to see where the slick spots might lie the damp bark.
They made it across easily, and soon it was my turn to follow suit. I’ll admit, I was grateful they continued hiking and didn’t stop to watch me navigate my way to their side. Having an audience always makes me less sure-footed on log crossings.
muddy fork to Bald Mountain
At a mere 2,945 feet elevation, the Muddy Fork crossing was the lowest point on this 40-mile loop hike. So I already knew today’s elevation profile was going to look like a continuous slope up all day long from here.
Once on the opposite side of the river, I began to power up the long 2.2-mile climb up to Bald Mountain. The trail was well-graded and had switchbacks, but it was still a long uphill slog in the forest with no views of Mt. Hood — or anything else interesting for that matter. So, I just put my head down and trudged forward while trying to maintain a good rhythm with my breathing.
Although this uphill detour would one of the hardest parts of my entire day, I knew it was better than the alternative. The closed section of the Timberline Trail paralleling my route was completely impassible thanks to all the downed trees and mudslides along Yocum Ridge. At least I wouldn’t have to navigate that chaotic obstacle course as I ascended the 1,000 foot climb up the side of Bald Mountain.
When I got to detour’s end, I was pretty out of breath from the long climb. I was in a small clearing where several trails crossed paths, and a giant map kiosk (and permit self-issuing station like the one I’d passed yesterday) stood as this random junction in the forest.
I dropped my pack and moseyed over to the map for a glimpse of what was in store for me next.
If I turned left, I’d continue hiking north on the PCT toward Canada. If I turned right, I’d head downhill toward Yocum Ridge and the closed section of the Timberline Trail I’d just bypassed. I didn’t want either of those options.
My destination was the final one. Straight ahead, I’d rejoin the Timberline Trail once again as it formed the northernmost part of the loop around Mount Hood. The map made the trail ahead looked like a series of jagged ripples that followed the folds of the terrain. Back and forth. Back and forth.
If I squinted my eyes and imagined the Timberline Trail encircling Mt. Hood like a clock’s face, I was now standing somewhere around 10 o’clock position. I’d begun the trail yesterday down at Timberline Lodge as the 6 o’clock position. And tonight’s destination at Cloud Cap Saddle would put me somewhere near the 2 o’clock position. Ok. That seemed managable enough.
Another backpacker was at the junction checking out the map with equally rapt attention. As we stood shoulder to shoulder staring at the kiosk and rehydrating from the long climb, I learned his name was John, and he was also heading to Cloud Cap Saddle today too.
After last night’s unexpected visitor, I was somewhat happy to hear I wouldn’t be camping all alone tonight. But Cloud Cap was still a long way off. Right now, my sights were set on the major landmarks still ahead of me: McNeil Point, Cairn Basin, Elk Cove, and the five other water crossings between here and the campground.
Bald mountain to Cairn Basin
The next mile of the Timberline Trail gave me a fairly good taste of what I missed on the section of closed trail I’d detoured around this morning. The higher I climbed onto the ridgeline, the more downed trees there seemed to be littering the trail.
Trail crews had clearly been in here trying to cut the path again, but the sheer number of giant trunks resting beside the trail was mind boggling. Last year’s Labor Day storm tore this poor forest to shreds, and the trail crews might be working on it for several seasons before the path could return to normal!
Ahead, a giant tree was perched horizontally nearly 4 feet off the ground up, and someone wrapped the trunk with orange tape bearing the words “killer tree” in black ink. As I ducked to get under it, I could see hundreds more trees littering the side of the trail like an obstacle course beyond it. Jeez!!
This short 1/2-mile section was frustratingly slow. I felt like I was hiking on relatively flat ground atop the ridge, but I just couldn’t seem to find any sort of pace as I stepped over and ducked under trees. The trail was obscured with so much deadfall that I repeatedly stop to and figure out where to go next.
Several times, I seemed to lose the trail as I followed a path around one side of a downed tree, only to realize the correct route was on the opposite side. Then I had to chose whether to bactrack to where I’d started or forge through the virgin underbrush to get back on trail.
Luckily, this morass only lasted 30 or 40 minutes before the defined, clear Timberline Trail resumed once again. After that, I was finally out on the open ridgeline and I caught up with John once again. As the two of us emerged from the dark forest we were greeted with the first sunshine I’d felt all day and sweeping views of Mt. Hood’s northern side.
What a perfect spot to stop for a break to warm up in the sun. And we were finally at high enough spot that I decided to toggle briefly my phone out of airplane mode. Yesssss! I had two bars of cell service! I hadn’t texted Keith since I hit the my brewery stop yesterday at lunch. It was time to send a ‘proof of life’ text home so he’d know all was well out here and I was still on track with my planned itinerary.
As I sat there waiting for his response and soaking in the views, I re-checked the weather forecast for the next two days. I know from past experience how quickly circumstances and forecasts can change in the mountains. But I was happy to see the weather was supposed to be even better than I’d originally anticipated. It would be sunny with daytime temperatures and in the 60s. Perfect!
I burned a bit more time taking photos of the mountain before stepping back on trail ahead of John. For the next few hours, I’d lose sight of him, and then he’d catch up to me and pass me. Then he’d stop for a snack or to take some pictures and we’d swap places once again, leapfrogging with each other for the better part of the day.
I didn’t it know then, but he’d actually be my dinner companion for the evening. But, I’m getting ahead of myself here…
Hiking along this next section of the Timberline Trail was absolutely lovely. The scenery to my right was dominated by Mt. Hood, and I started to come across more clear streams and creeks flowing from Mt. Hood’s glaciers to lower ground.
This was the first water I’d seen since crossing Muddy Fork this morning and I was grateful for the refreshing, cold water running over the mossy rocks. The climb up Bald Mountain depleted almost all the water I’d been carrying.
Looking back on it now, the northern side of Mt. Hood from Bald Mountain to Cloud Cap Saddle was my absolute favorite section of the trail. Each time I crested a small ridge, I was treated with vistas for miles and miles.
A few occasional wooden signs dotted the route when other trails intersected or merged with the Timberline Trail. But mostly I was just navigating by following the 2-foot wide strip of dirt, forged in the 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps, as it wound around each bend to reveal yet another spectacular view of Mt. Hood.
It was damn near perfect. That is, until I almost headed down the wrong side of the mountain!
Just past McGee Creek, I walked into a meadow with the remnants of two small lakes. The trail ahead of me forked, with the right path heading into the trees while the left one following along the edge of one of the lakes.
Both trails were equally well-defined, and this junction didn’t seem to be marked with any signs like all the past times trails diverged from each other. Moreover, the two paths seemed to be heading in the same general direction. So I assumed it was just a braided trail, and I assured myself the paths would probably rejoin again in 200 or 300 feet.
As it turns out, the trails didn’t ever merge back together. So after 1/3 of a mile, I started feeling anxious and decided to pull out my phone to check my Gaia GPS app to find out whether I’d picked the correct path.
I hadn’t. Instead of heading east on the Timberline Trail. I’d gone north on the Mazama Trail. Dammit!
I was retracing my steps back toward the junction where I’d gone astray, when I looked up at the mountain above me. Perhaps I was meant to take this wrong turn, because from here, Mt. Hood looked just perfect silhouetted against the cloudless blue sky. So I stopped to pull out my phone and take a photo.
As I was putting my phone back in its pouch, two female trail runners suddenly came barreling down the path toward me. The one in the lead slowed her pace just slightly to hurriedly ask me, “Is this the right trail to McNeil Point?”
Before I could say a word, her partner interrupted and emphatically asserted, “Yes, keep going. It’s this way.” And then they took off at a sprint past me down the Mazama Trail… heading in the wrong direction.
Hmmm. I guess they’ll eventually figure it out their mistake the hard way… just like I did!
Once I finally made it back at the trail junction, I scoured the area more closely just to see if I’d somehow missed a sign for the Timberline Trail. Nope. There wasn’t one. Not even an old sign post indicating there might had once been one there. I guess this is why I alway carry a map (and GPS) instead just relying on my gut to find the route!
As I worked my way east again on the Timberline Trail toward McNeil Junction, I had competing views on either side of me. To my right, Mt. Hood’s beauty loomed over my shoulder, while the opposite side was filled with the Cascade Mountains resting on the opposite side of the Columbia River in Washington State.
I could make out the sharp triangular peak of Mt. Adams with just a touch of snow remaining on it. And to its left was the distinctive broken top of Mount St. Helens.
Most people my age can vividly remember Mount St. Helens erupting back in 1980. It was such a major event. One day the mountain was a prominent angular cone with year-round snow and ice covering it. The next day it was transformed into a squat, horseshoe-shaped crater standing 1,300 feet shorter in elevation!
I was just a second grader living in the town of Melrose, Oregon, when the volcano blew its top off. And even though we were safely 250 miles to the south, I can still remember the wisps of ash floating down, providing a light dusting on car windows and lawns for the next few days.
These days, I’m far more likely to see Mount St. Helens from the 10,000 feet in air during the short flight between Eugene and Seattle. I always peer out the plane’s window scanning the terrain below to confirm my bearings. It’s like a checklist of familiar mountains on my way north: Mt. Hood (check). Mt. Adams (check). Mount St. Helens (check). Mt. Rainier (check). Ok, it’s time to land at Sea-Tac.
So I find it pretty amazing that I can see three of those same peaks from my spot right here below McNeil Point. But, then again, I’ve also now made it back up to a 5,363′ elevation. I’m standing a mile higher than the Columbia River and nearby Portland, and the day is turning out to be as sunny and clear as the weather forecast promised.
The next hour of hiking toward Cairn Basin was spectacularly beautiful. I crossed a small creek right after the McNeil Point trail junction and was able to easily hop across the rocks protruding front the water.
Once again, I silently wondered to myself why everyone makes such a big deal about the water crossings on this trail. Perhaps the bigger crossings are yet to come. Or maybe the rivers are much lower this year from the severe drought conditions we’re experiencing. Or it could just be fear-mongering from inexperienced hikers. Whatever the case, this had been so much easier than I anticipated.
Ahead of me I could see a ridge of white, bare trees where it appeared like a fire that gobbled acres upon acres of forest. As I eventually made my way to scarred trunks, I spotted tons of pinkish purple fireweed growing nearby.
It’s amazing how these alpine flowers seem to endure just about everything nature can throw at them. In fact, fireweed was the first plant to appear on Mount St. Helens after her eruption! And while their vibrant colors are pretty, the fact that I keep seeing more and more of it on my local hikes is just evidence that the wildfire seasons are doing more damage to the Pacific Northwest each year.
Once I crested the ridge, I stared down below. The burn area seemed to go on forever down the mountainside and stood in stark contrast to the green forest stretching beside it. The charred trees were still standing, but it looked like an enormous gray scar on the on the ripples of terrain.
Then my eyes were drawn upward to the clear blue skies with Mt. Adams and Mount St. Helens pushing upward in sharp relief above the white trees. Each time I took a new turn in their direction, the backdrop seemed grow sharper and more stunning.
Next up, I was headed toward Eden Park, one of the most idyllic spots on the mountain. I’m not sure if this spot is named after the Garden of Eden, but if so, the comparison was definitely warranted. The serenity of this spot is simply unreal.
I only had one regret while walking through this flat alpine meadow. I’d just narrowly missed the peak wildflowers that bloomed here each July and August. It must be just astoundingly beautiful when the purple mountain lupine, yellow monkey flower, and tiny white yarrow are fighting for your visual attention.
Yet, as summer gave way to fall, something splendid was in the process of emerging here. Clumps of red berries set against the green, yellow, and orange foliage formed a stunning backdrop to walk through.
Cairn Basin to ELIOT BRANCH
By the time I reached the small stream bisecting Cairn Basin, I was 100% ready to stop for lunch. I was halfway through my intended mileage for the day. The sun was shining brightly. And I was feeling a bit sleepy.
As I sat next to Ladd Creek with my back resting up against a boulders and pulled out my lunch, John (the hiker been leap-frogging with all day) finally caught back up with me again.
He shared that he’d missed the turn at the same stupid unmarked junction that I did! Luckily, he didn’t wander too far down the Mazama Trail before meeting up with two trail runners heading his way who helped turn him around.
Hmmm. I wonder if they were the same two ladies who ran off before I could tell them they were heading the wrong way!
John briefly filtered some water and then set off ahead of me again, so I had the next hour of silence and sunshine to myself. It was a real treat to just sit there relaxing, reading my paperback, and just savoring the fresh air and sound the burbling creek.
After lunch, I crossed to the opposite side of Ladd Creek, hopping over the rocks and before heading away from Cairn Basin toward my next landmark – the wide, open meadows at Elk Cove.
This alpine basin was formed when Mt. Hood’s Coe Glacier pushed its way down through the valley before retreating once again. When I arrived at Elk Cove, I could still see Coe Glacier resting above me on the mountain, while several branches of Coe Creek carved their way through the grassy meadow toward lower ground.
As the afternoon wore on, I took note of all the later season wildflowers still lingering around. Red indian paintbrush. Purple mountain asters. Tiny white willowherbs. But, one of the flowers I passed on my journey this afternoon stumped me. I had no idea what they were called. They looking like something out of a Dr. Seuss book and seemed to resemble tufts of cotton, with dozens of them dotting the hillside beside the trail.
I suspect these little fluff balls were the seeds for the flower at the end of its life cycle, and this feathery down was designed to catch in the wind and spread it across the meadow like the fuzz of a dandelion. But, even after some basic research, the flower’s name still eludes me.
About two hours after my lunch break, I finally came across a ravine with the first real creek I’d have to ford today. Compass Creek was moving fast, but without any sort of easy or apparent log crossing like Muddy Fork had this morning. Dammit!
As I stood on the bank trying to decide what to do, another duo of trail runners emerging from the bushes beside me. They told me they’d gone upstream to cross and were now following the bank back down to the trail.
I was planning to do the same thing until they informed me the conditions above weren’t any better. My best bet, they assured me, was to ford the river here — where two giant boulders were pinching the gap to just a 3-4 feet across. There wasn’t anywhere easy up above to rock hop across while keeping my shoes completely dry.
Ok, I would take my shoes off and ford the fast moving water here. I’d already changed from my long tights to my hiking skirt at lunch, so I didn’t really mind if my legs got soaking wet at this water crossing. They’d dry quickly in the sun.
The fast-moving water fed from glacial melt was numbingly cold on my feet and calves, but it only came up as far as my knees. I had no problem staying upright with my trekking poles assisting me through the churning water and was across the creek in less time than it took to remove my shoes and tie them about my neck.
Once I was safely on the opposite bank, I watched a pair of guys with giant backpacks emerge. They were going to try to navigate the gap by rock hopping with their shoes on. But in the process of stepping on a partially visible rock, the lead guy slipped and ended up completely submerging his leather boot and pants to the knee. Oh that really sucks!
Rather give him an unwanted audience as he cursed his bad fortune, I quickly set off down the next section trail. The dirt path narrowed and rose at a steep incline ahead of me. There were more dozen switchbacks on the way up, and it took me past several waterfalls on the ascent up the next ridge.
At this hour of the afternoon, the climb was almost entirely in the shade, with the ridgeline shielding me from the mid-afternoon sun. So it took a while before I finally got high enough to to emerge from the shadows where my wet legs could warm up again and I could enjoy the reds, russets, and oranges of the fall foliage emerging next to the trail.
As I dipped back into the shade of the next valley, I was treated to another unexpected sight. Another tall waterfall spilled over the edge of the rocks above. But this time, there were also enormous chunks of ice and snow (the size of my living room sofa) resting in the shady pockets of the draw! Was that part of a glacier that broke off and slipped down there?
The whole thing was rather impressive in surreal way.
As I finally got to the last mile of my day, I looked across the next ridge and could see what appeared to be a giant stone lodge resting atop it. This must be Cloud Cap Inn, the mountain resort built back in the 1880s with the immense help of Chinese laborers.
The inn never turned into the wild success its investors hoped it would be, and the U.S Forest Service eventually purchased the building in 1942. Now it’s primarily used by the Crag Rats, the United States’ oldest search and rescue organization, to perform training and mountain rescues here on Mt. Hood.
Next to the inn rests the Cloud Cap Saddle campground, a primitive USFS campground that would be closing for the season in about a week.
I could see my final destination for the day! But before I could get there, I’d need to cross the loud, rushing water of the Eliot Branch River pouring through the gulch several hundred feet below.
Eliot Branch to Cloud Cap
Even though I was only hiking 15 miles today, I have to admit the miles weren’t nearly as easy as I’d expected them to be. The Timberline Trail had lovely tread (with that one exception near Bald Mountain with all the fallen trees), yet Mt. Hood’s terrain isn’t easy or flat.
Ever since I crossed the trail’s low point at the Muddy Fork this morning, I’d been steadily gaining elevation all day. I’d gone up more than 3,000 vertical feet today, but it wasn’t a slow and steady progression. It was the constant up and down of ridges and valleys, over and over again.
I stilled needed to do one more repetition of this exercise. I had to descend 600′ down this final gorge, do a quick water crossing, and climb back up to the Cloud Cap Saddle on the opposite side. Then I could finally set up camp and rest!
The trail ahead plunged down a series of steep switchbacks forcing my feet forward into my shoes where they painfully bounced against the toe box. As much as I just wanted momentum and gravity to just carry me downhill quickly, my sore knees and feet made it agonizingly obvious that I needed to make a more controlled descent after a full day of hiking.
The sound of the rushing water echoed louder and louder as I got deeper into the canyon. Then just beyond some established campsites, the trail abruptly ended at a ledge!
I was still at least 20 feet above the river, with no way to get down steep slope of loose dirt and rocks. What the heck?!?
I paralleled the river downstream a bit and saw a rope stung across the raging sand-colored river, but there still wasn’t any discernible footpath down to it. The ground just dropped off at a steep, unsafe angle. How the heck was I supposed to make my way across??
As I stood there weighing my options and puzzling over how I was going to get down to the water, I heard a voice hollaring at me. I looked up to see where it was coming from, and spotted John on the opposite side of the gorge.
He was shouting something at me and pointing upstream, but I could only catch every fourth of fifth word coming out of his mouth because the sound of the rushing water was drowning him out.
He continued to vigorously point upstream, and I figured he was trying to show me where he’d made his way down to the water’s edge safely. I faded back into the trees that lined the banks and made my way back up upstream, before popping back out at the ledge again.
When I reemerged at this new spot, I could see a vague footpath carved in the loose sandy soil heading down toward a boulder. Below that, I couldn’t see a thing. If I went down here, it would be a leap of faith. I’d either find a second trail (that was completely invisible from here) or I’d have to try to scramble back up the impossibly steep embankment back up to the ledge.
I looked across the gorge to confirm this is what John had been pointing at, but he was suddently gone! Where did he go?? He’d been there just a minute ago. Did he just magically show up to shout some advice and then take off?!?
WIth few options, I carefully stepped on the path heading down the bank, feeling the sand giving a little with each step. Clearly other hikers had used this spot before, and I prayed it hadn’t eroded enough to give out entirely. I didn’t want find myself to falling the 20 feet down to the water in an uncontrolled slide.
Ok, this was probably the peril all those other hikers had been talking about when discussing the Timberline’s tricky water crossings. I’d been flippant about it all day. But, Eliot Creek was no joke! And I wasn’t even at the water yet!
After 30 seconds of heart-pounding descent on the steep embankment, I made my way to the water’s edge in one piece. Now it was time to begin picking my way back downstream on the boulder-covered edge of hte water toward the crossing point I’d spotted earlier.
Just as I got to the wet rope strung across the gap, John showed up again. I could hear him better now, and he was telling me there was a wet log I could probably cross on even further upstream if I wanted to keep my shoes on.
Um, I’ll pass. After watching that guy slip on the rocks at Compass Creek, I wasn’t in the frame of mind to take any unnecessary chances. Wet wood is even more slippery than wet rocks. Plus, there was a rope here to help keep me upright as the thigh-deep glacial water rushed past. I’d take that assistance any day, even if it meant spending an extra five minutes taking my shoes on and off.
John waited and watched to make sure I didn’t have any problems with the crossing before taking off to find his pack again. He lingered patiently over me as I re-tied my shoes. It was nice of him to assist, but I told him he didn’t have to wait any longer. I’d see him up at camp in a few minutes.
The final series of switchbacks up to Cloud Cap mirrored the steep ones I’d taken down on the other side of the canyon. So it’s probably not surprising that I found myself huffing and puffing on my way up, and even needing to stop once or twice for a quick rest.
I don’t know if it was the fatigue of the day or the 6,000′ elevation that stole my breath, but I was exhausted by the time I rolled into camp 15 minutes later.
Cloud Cap
When I finally arrived at the campground, it was closing in on 5:30 pm, and I was grateful to bring the day to a close. Several of the campsites were already occupied with tents, and it took a moment to find an open one where I could dropped my pack before heading off in search of some much-needed water.
I’d hiked all they way up the switchbacks with less than a quarter of a bottle of water because I’d read there was a piped faucet up here at the campground. Finding if that info was actually true was my first order of business.
If the faucet wasn’t in working order (or the USFS already turned off for the winter) I’d have to head back down to the river again for more water. And truthfully, I was really hoping to avoid hiking those steep switchbacks again!
Lucky for me, the faucet was still working and I filled my bottle to the brim before taking stock of the rest of the area. Down the gravel road, I could see the edge of the Cloud Cap Inn peeking out. And closer to the campground there was a clean vault toilet (with ample TP). Finally, I made my way over to the kiosk showing a map layout of the area and nearby parking areas.
The kiosk informed me that all the campsites in the campground could be used on a first come, first serve basis, but the cost was $13/night. Unfortunately, I didn’t have anything smaller than $5 or $10 bills on me, so I ended having to make the choice.
I could either: (a) deposit $15 in the registration envelope for my campsite, or (b) I could write down my credit card number – from memory – on the registration slip. I went with the cash option. I’d pay two extra dollars and consider it a donation to the Forest Service.
Before I headed back to where I dropped my pack to set up camp, I had one more errand to complete. I needed to see if I could temporarily bum the use of a stove of someone so I could cook dinner. The temperature was cooling off quick up here and I wanted a hot meal and a warm cup of coffee!
I looked around to see where John was setting up camp, but didn’t spot him. Ok, plan B. I trod over to a solo male hiker and explained that I’d accidentally left my stove at home. Would he mind if I borrowed his for a few minutes? I assured him didn’t need any propane. I had my own fuel canister and a lighter. I just needed a stove.
Without even a moment’s hesitation, he agreed to help me out! This is one of the reasons why I love backpacking. The hiker community is truly awesome! Whether it’s helping someone get across a water crossing safely, or letting them borrow a piece of gear, 99% of hikers are simply awesome.
As I boiled up some water for dinner and sipped on some coffee to warm up, John emerged again and decided to set up camp at the next site over. I hadn’t seen him before because he taken a quick trip down at the Cloud Cap Inn to check out the old lodge before it got too late.
As he sat at his picnic table and I sat at mine, I decided this was silly. I invited myself over. Over the next 45 minutes we got to know each other while eating our respective dinners, and learned we actually had quite a bit in common outside of hiking this trail.
We both had degrees from universities in South Carolina (Clemson for him; University of S. Carolina for me). We were both military officers (USAF/USSF for him, Army for me). We’d both had assignments in Colorado Springs. We’d hiked some of the same trails on the West Coast. And so on, and so on…
All told it was a pleasant way to spend my evening and reminded me how much I love meeting people in the outdoors. Almost everyone has a fascinating story to tell, and it enriches the overall experience out on the trail.
After dinner (and returning the stove I borrowed earlier), I set off to explore the Cloud Cap Inn before it got dark. The sun was already low in the sky and the sunset views from way up here were calling my name.
As I walked around the area I was noticing the aches and pains starting to settle in. I had a knot on the right side of my lower back and wondered what the heck I’d done to cause that. I coudn’t tell whether it was a muscle stain or a pinched nerve somewhere. Either way, it hurt like the dickens.
I guess that was my cue to call it a night. I still had 15 more miles to hike tomorrow to complete this loop and get me back to my car. Plus, I still had the highest point on the trail to tackle yet! I’d need a good night’s rest for that.
HIGHLIGHTS
- Crossing paths with John throughout the day and getting to swap stories with him over dinner. Even though I came out here to hike this trail solo, it’s always nice to know get to talk to interesting people at camp.
- The views from McNeil Point to Elk Cove were phenomenal. I felt as if I saw Mt. Hood at it’s very best, and I absolutely loved looking out at Mt. Adams and Mount St. Helens all day.
- Having a hot meal at the end of the day. Thank you to the wonderfulstranger who let me borrow his stove. I blows my mind how kind and generous people can be in the backcountry.
CHALLENGES
- Getting over my fears when some came walking down the trail after dark last night. I know I’m probably safer in the backcountry than just about anywhere, but 2019’s tragedy still resonates with me.
- The nagging pain in my back this evening. I don’t know the cause, but I sure hope it doesn’t impact my mobility or enjoyment of the trail tomorrow.
- Safely crossing Eliot Branch without any issues. Getting down to the water was a bigger chore than I’d expected. I sure hope the four remaining water crossings tomorrow are easier than that!!