Tuesday – Sept. 14, 2021
- Start Point: Cloud Cap Saddle Campground
- End Point: Timberline Lodge
- Today’s Mileage: 14 miles
- Total Distance: 39 miles
I slept much more soundly at Cloud Cap Saddle campground last night. Probably because no one was shining a headlamp at my tent to scare the bejesus out of me as I was trying to fall asleep.
It also helped my peace of mind out here to have the security of so many other people around. All told, there were about 7 or 8 tents spread around the various campsites. Far more than I would have thought on a random Monday evening in mid-September.
Of course, there was one noticeable downside to staying in a primitive campground too. No, it wasn’t the snoring from one of my neighbors (I could ignore that). Nor was it the duo one campsite over who kept readjusting and turning over all night long on their insanely noisy air mattresses.
The real culprit to my comfort was the door to the pit toilet that stood 70 yards away. Every time someone went in or out of it, the heavy door slammed closed with a raucous “wham.” I must be sharing a campground with people who possess tiny bladders because that stupid door woke me up at least a dozen times between midnight and 3 am.
I was up for good at first light, and I even got to see a bit of the sunrise. Coincidentally, the best spot to watch the sun come up seemed to be right next to the pit toilet, though. Sigh.
CAMPROUND TO THE TRAIL’S APEX
John had cowboy camped in the soft, sandy campsite next to mine. He hadn’t bothered to set his tent up last night and just laid his sleeping pad and mummy bag on a ground cloth instead.
I’m glad I didn’t do the same thing, because I could hear bees loudly buzzing nearby. I have no idea what kind of bees they might be. But after getting stung multiple times by some ground-dwelling bees on the North Umpqua Trail last summer, I decided I didn’t want to find out. At least my tent provided a thin barrier between me and them as I ate another cold breakfast in my tent.
Everyone was just starting to stir when I started packing up. Yet I was the first to actually break camp this morning. This wasn’t out of an eagerness to be the first hiker on the trail. My lower back still hurts from yesterday. I was simply cold, and the best recipe to get the warm was to start moving.
The overnight temperatures dipped down into the low 40s again last night, but my map showed the Timberline Trail would climb the entire way from Cloud Cap Saddle toward the trail’s high point. Hiking uphill was the perfect way to get the blood flowing.
Once I got above treeline, I finally felt the warmth of the morning sun on my face. The next few miles were completely exposed and gray with the landscape punctuated by boulders and scrub brush. The ground beneath my feet slowed my pace as the route transitioned to glacial silt. But at least I was warm enough that I could remove my hat and gloves now.
This challenging silty terrain on this side of Mt. Hood is often referred to as “rock flour.” It’s a mix of fine-grain sediment and tiny rocks that’s about as difficult to walk in as loose sand on a beach. Perhaps it was even harder though because the trail heads upward the entire time through it.
As I painstakingly plodded upward toward the trail’s apex somewhere between Eliot Glacier and Newton Clark Glacier, I turned around to look at the scenery behind me. Cloud Cap Saddle was now buried somewhere in green below.
I took in the final glimpses of Mt. Adams and Mount St. Helens as the trail curved around the terrain. Yesterday these mountains were my constant companions as I wound my around the north side of the Mt. Hood. But I knew they’d soon be completely out of sight, with the mountain soon standing between me and everything to the north.
A faded wooden post, buried in a two-foot tall pile of rocks, marked the Cooper Spur Trail that climbed up toward Mt. Hood’s summit. Copper Spur shelter was supposedly somewhere up there, but I was too out of breath to go explore. My focus was solely on the trail ahead as it climbed higher and higher from one rock cairn to the next.
I could see for miles from this vantage point above treeline. And as far as I could tell, I was the only one on the mountain. Not a soul was ahead of me, nor were any hikers trailing behind me. It was just me and the lovely alpine terrain on Mt. Hood’s northern side.
Around 8:15 am, I crossed over a snow field covering the trail, and I knew I was close to the highest point on the Timberline Trail. Just ahead of me lie an unnamed, unmarked spot at 7,300 feet.
Beyond that high spot, a stream of glacial melt crossed my path, and the air was warming up surprisingly quick under the sun’s intense rays overhead. Even though I’d started the morning wearing my tights under my hiking skirt, I now ready to strip off this bottom layer and enjoy the remainder of the journey back to Timberline Lodge.
The hardest part was behind me. Everything from here was downhill, right?
THe NORTHEAST SIDE
Shortly after the trail’s apex, I realized I wasn’t actually alone out here. As I began my downward descent and curved around the mountain’s eastern side, I began crossing paths with several hikers heading counterclockwise.
The first duo had a dog with them, and I wondered where they’d stayed last night. Everything up here was so exposed. Would they pitch a tent on this terrain?
Behind them, a solo female hiker trudged up toward me next and asked how far to the next water source. I told her about the cold, glacial stream running just ahead and she rejoiced loudly with the news. She hadn’t carried enough up to her campsite last night was just about out of water after the morning’s climb.
As the trail weaved back and forth on the folds of the terrain, it transitioned to juniper and boulders. And somewhere beyond, I could hear a loud roaring whooshing noise seemingly from above.
At first, I stared up toward Mt. Hood’s summit. Was it the wind making the noise? Probably not, the air was completely still. Was it a plane taking off from Portland airport? No, I couldn’t see anything in the clear blue sky.
As I rounded a bend and looked up to my right, I finally caught sight of the sound’s source. A giant waterfall was pouring down the side of mountain, dropping hundreds of feet from the glaciers above and running into the steep canyon toward Newton Creek. This wasn’t a trickling waterfall. It looked like a raging river pouring down the side of the mountain with ferocity and power.
The thunder of the water was amazingly loud from this far away. With nothing around to obscure or absorb the noise, the sound seemed to resonate into the air.
Ahead of me the trail headed straight toward Lamberson Butte, and I suddenly understood where all those early morning hikers had come from. This was the ideal spot to spend the night on the mountain!
There were tons of flat spots to camp, nestled into upper edge of the treeline. The views went on forever on both sides of the ridge. Mt. Hood stood silhouetted against the sky looking like it was covered in gold, while I Mt. Jefferson rose up in the distance to my south.
In fact, the only downfall to this spot was there was no water available nearby. Hikers had to carry it several miles up the mountain from Newton Creek. But I suppose that was a price worth paying for this sublime of a spot on the mountain!
Beyond the campsites, I came across the remains of an old stone shelter that had since collapsed. I suppose it could still serve as a windbreak up on the ridge, as the walls were still at least 2-3 feet high. But it wasn’t what it once was in its glory days.
From here the trail descended into a forest of trees as the trail wove back and forth down switchbacks and through lovely meadows. The crisp fall smell of the trees permeated the air, and I was feeling on top of the world as I leisurely made my way downhill. Could this day get any better??
The NEWTON CREEK Debacle
After two miles of lovely downhill, I finally made it all the way down to Newton Creek, where the roaring river cut its way though the bottom of the canyon.
The speed of the rushing water looked just as fast from this vantage point as it had going over the ledge above. Fording this glacier-fed creek would definitely be brutally cold on the legs this morning .
I scouted the edge of the water — walking up and down stream looking for a place cross while to staying dry — but I didn’t see any logs spanning the 4-6 foot raging creek. In all likelihood, I’d need to strip off my shoes and socks and wade across it like I’d done last night in Eliot Creek.
Then, I spotted an area of the creek that looked significantly narrower. There was a gap between two large boulders where the water was only maybe 2.5 or 3 feet across. Could I jump that?
The right side my lower back was still in a lot of pain this morning, so I didn’t want to try to jump the creek with my heavy pack on. Not only would the extra weight on my back limit my ability to jump, but I might injure myself even more in the process.
Could I jumping across the creek without my pack, I wondered?
I stood there for a minute and considered my options. Fording the creek was still the smartest idea. But I had no clue how deep the water was here. It’s usually much deeper below these narrow pinch points, so I’d need to scout for a shallower spot somewhere else if I wanted to ford the creek.
If only I didn’t have my pack. I could totally jump this gap.
And that’s when the idea of throwing my pack across to the other side dawned on me. If I tossed my pack over to the boulders on the opposite side, I’d be free to jump without it. That could work!! It could totally work.
I pulled my phone out of the shoulder pouch. I didn’t want it to fly out on the journey over (or get a cracked screen), then I tucked it deep into the large outside pouch of my pack between my rain jacket and map. That would surely be enough padding to protect it.
Now all I needed to do was find the perfect spot to balance myself while I tossed my pack over the water to the other bank. I wanted my throw to be gentle enough that I didn’t break anything inside, but it also needed to be forceful enough to make sure my pack completely cleared the water.
I stepped to the edge of the boulder and swung my 20-pound pack back and forth a few times to build up some momentum, then I launched it over the gap toward the opposite side.
I watched it sail in the air before landing on a large boulder on other bank.
Yessss! I did it!
But then time seemed to slow down and I watched in horror as my pack bounced off a tall boulder on the far side. It was like watching a basketball bounce off a backboard. My pack started to fall on its side, and it probably would have been fine, excepted it landed right onto my curved water bottle. The water bottle bounced out to the pocket, and then my pack started rolling backward toward the rushing water between us.
Nooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!
I had only a second to jump into action before my pack was swept downstream with my phone, my car keys, and everything else inside it. So I did the only thing I could do… I jumped in the creek to save it.
Luckily, I was able to grab hold of my pack in the nick of time. It was only submerged in the water a matter of a few seconds and it didn’t have time to get swept downstream where it would never to be found again.
But, as elated as I was to save my pack, I was also now soaking wet and submerged up to my crotch in ice cold water with my shoes and socks on! So much for my plan to stay dry at this water crossing!
I made to the opposite bank as quickly as I could, and hurriedly pulled my electronic items out to make sure they still worked. My phone and AirPods were wet, but not ruined. The entire exterior of my pack was soaking wet, but I’d used a plastic liner inside it, so all the gear inside was still dry.
Everything on the outside of my pack was still secure – with one exception. My sole Smartwater bottle was now gone. I walked downstream about 50 yards to see if it got caught on some rocks where I could perhaps retrieve it, but my water bottle appeared to be lost for good!
I’d have to make it through the next 9 miles of this trail using nothing but my 0.7L Katadyn BeFree pouch. Not an ideal scenario, but I’d be ok. I still had three more water crossings ahead. I shouldn’t run out of water.
As I waited for the intense rush of adrenaline to finish coursing out of me, it was time to rinse out my shoes and socks. Each shoe felt like a cup of sand and silt pushed its way in from the bottom of the creek. There was no way I’d be able to walk with all that junk inside my shoes.
I was busy rinsing my stuff out when John suddenly showed up behind me. He was dry as could be. Meanwhile I had wet socks, wet shoes, wet gaiters, a wet skirt, wet underwear, and the bottom half of my shirt was drenched. Yep, I looked like a total and complete mess!!
He asked what the heck happened, and I shared the blow-by-blow of my embarrassing water crossing. Thankfully, he had the grace not to laugh out loud, but I could tell by the effort that it took to restrain himself, he thought it was completely hilarious.
He lingered beside the trail waiting for me to finish up, and we spend the next two miles hiking together. We went up and down, climbing over the next ridge and then back down to Clark Creek as my pack dripped cold droplets of water down the backs of my legs.
But at least the scenery and company was good.
Hitting the wall
My clothes were drying out relatively quick in the sunny, arid air. And once we reached Clark Creek, just 45 minutes later, my skirt and shirt were complete dry again.
My shoes and socks, on the other hand, were still soaking wet. So when we reached the shin-deep creek, I just went ahead and waded across it without bothering to remove my footwear. Wet was wet, I figured. Why waste time removing them?
Once I got to the other side, my head was pounding and I was starting to feel sluggish. I decided it was time for snack break, so I waved John to go ahead of me. I’d catch him in a bit. I wanted to stop and rest here for a bit.
As I sat on a rock eating some trail mix and drinking water, I laid out my rain jacket, waterproof map, and the handful of other drenched items that had been in the outside pouch of my pack. I was banking on them drying as quickly as my clothes had, and I wasn’t wrong. Within 10 minutes in the sun, they were completely dry, along with about half of my pack.
After a good 20 minute break, I hoisted my damp pack back onto my shoulders. It was time to hike up the next series of ups and downs that crossed through the Mt. Hood Meadows Ski Resort. I still had 7 miles to go to get back to my car. If I made good time, I could be there by 1 or 1:30 pm.
Yet as I stood up, my heart started racing, and I suddenly got dizzy and super nauseated. I had to lean up against a tall tree right beside the just trail to steady myself as I took a few deep breaths. It was probably just lightheadedness from standing up too quick, I told myself.
After a few seconds, I stepped onto the trail, but I still felt sick. What was going on?!? I’d just eaten a snack. I’d hydrated. I’d rested for nearly 20 minutes. My pack was lighter because it was mostly dry. Why was I feeling so horrible?
Maybe it would work itself out. I’d take it slow and easy this next mile. Just put one foot in front of the other and take a few steps.
The next hour was miserable though. My pulse seemed to be racing uncontrollably. I felt physically weak. I’d walk 50 yards, then have to stop and catch my breath. I thought the symptoms might subside once I crested the next ridge and started downhill again, but I still felt like I needed to throw up.
I tried to distract myself by using my frequent rest breaks to take photos of Mt. Hood and the waterfalls I was passing. Yet nothing made me feel better. I put my AirPods in and listened to a podcast in hopes that would distract me. But that didn’t work either.
After two miles of hiking at a ridiculously slow pace, I come to some open meadows below the ski lift and decided I couldn’t go on like this. I was bonking like a marathon runner at mile 22.
I knew I needed to take my pack off, pull out my groundcloth, and just rest here until I felt stronger. I’d take the next hour and eat lunch, and surely this horrible feeling enveloping me would pass.
Unfortunately, my long break didn’t change a thing. No matter how long I sat there or what I tried to do, nothing seemed to make the intense sick feeling subside.
…not eating more calories as I scrounged my last tuna pouch and flour tortilla for lunch.
…not the sugar or fat from my last Reese’s peanut butter cup.
…not the copious salt from the half a bag Chili Cheese Fritos.
…not a half of a liter of water I drank.
…not laying in the sun.
…not resting in the shade.
I’d hit a wall, and now my entire body felt completely inert. Plus, my heart was racing out of my chest with a fluttery, abnormal rhythm even when I was resting.
The last time I felt this completely overcome with fatigue and nausea, I was hiking above 14,000 feet, where the air was thin and I was pushing my body to its limits. But right now, I’m barely above 5,000 feet and I’m resting.
“Am I sick?,” I wondered. “Or is something else – something serious – wrong with me?” I still felt strong mentally and I was completely aware of my surrounding. But for some reason, my body just didn’t want to cooperate, and I still had five more miles to get back to my car.
THE FINAL STRETCH
Under normal conditions, a five mile hike on rolling terrain would have taken me less than two hours to complete. But, as I rose back on to my feet and shouldered my pack, I knew it would be closer to three or four hours.
I was moving so slow, but I just couldn’t seem to find any sort of rhythm or pace. I was ok whenever the trail sloped downhill, but as soon as it leveled out – or worse – made even the slightest ascent, I felt like I was atop Mt. Whitney, struggling to catch my breath.
I’d take 10 steps, then pause to rest. Take 10 more steps, and rest again. It was painfully slow.
This terrain wasn’t even hard! I’d hiked so many more difficult things. But my body just wouldn’t do what it needed to do as I made my way across the remaining ski slopes, over a small burbling creek (my next to last water crossing), and across a dirt road leading to the Umbrella Falls Trail.
I passed more late season wildflowers, and found myself temporarily amused by the white seed heads of the pasque flowers standing beside the trail. Their wispy down fluffs seemed to be swirling around like soft-serve cones.
After about 1.5 hours of intensely focusing to kept my body upright and moving, I passed a broken sign nailed to moss-covered trees informing me I was entering the Richard Kohnstamm Wilderness. The trail was making its descent to the final river crossing – the White River.
As I slowly hiked the long downhill stretch toward the water, I was able to catch my breath again and walk continuously without stopping. The fatigue on my body temporarily lifted with the downhill descent, and I almost felt normal again.
But I knew it would be short-lived. As the trees cleared, I could see the next climb ahead and I knew the final miles to the trailhead would be the slowest ones yet. But first, I needed to get across the river.
This last water crossing wasn’t going to be as easy. In fact, this was the only water crossing on the entire 40-mile loop that had signs posted before and after it warning hikers of the danger of the rushing water.
The White River wasn’t a single crossing. The river ribboned out into two smaller rivers in the gorge. The first stream was shallow enough that I could rock hop across a narrow section and only get my now-damp shoes slightly more wet.
But the second crossing was down a severe drop-off that I’d have to scout to find my way down. It was something akin to the steep ledge from Eliot Crossing yesterday. But it was even worse.
It was worse because the embankment was nothing but soft sand and scree that dropped at a nearly vertical slope for 15-20 feet.
It was also worse because I felt sick and fatigued, and could barely move without wanting to physically collapse. It was already close to 2 pm and I was nowhere near my car yet.
Most mostly, it was worse because I knew that the Timberline Trail would soon merge back with the PCT and the final two miles to Timberline Lodge were soft ankle-deep sand as it climbed the 1000-foot ascent back toward where I’d parked.
Once I made it safely across the second half of the White River, I gave myself a pep talk.
Only two miles to the car. I’d hiked the last five while feeling like death wormed over me. I could make these last two miles, even if I had to crawl there on my hands and knees. Even if it took me two more hours. I’d make it dammit!
The uphill repeatedly stole my breath. I felt like I was attempting to climb Mt. Everest. My pulse was racing at 150 beats per minute every time I tried to move forward.
I was back to counting my steps just to keep my body going. 10 steps forward. Pause and rest. Now 10 more steps forward. Pause. Lucky for me, I didn’t see many other hikers out and didn’t have to be embarrassed by how utterly ridiculous I looked.
Normally I’m a pretty strong hiker. I don’t mind the hills. But ever since the Clark Creek, I feel like I’ve been pushing my body in the red zone without understanding what’s causing it.
During the last mile, I could hear the sound of cars making their way up the road leading to Timberline Lodge. They felt as if they were right there and if I just took a left turn, I’d be on the paved road, which had to be easier than walking on this soft, sandy trail.
As I turned a bend near the top of the ridge, the terrain leveled off a bit and the trees dropped away. I could see I’d been mistaken earlier. The Salmon River ran in a deep ravine below separating the trail and the paved road. The only way back to the trailhead was this trail. I couldn’t take a shortcut on the paved road.
But then, in the distance to my right, I could see the lodge! And the parking lot. I was almost there!! Adrenaline surged through me after I spotted this landmark, and I felt some semblance of hope that this journey was finally almost over!
I still struggled mightily to conquer that last length, while keeping my pace slow and steady. As the trail leveled to flat, and then angled slightly downhill, I went from taking breaks every 10 steps to only needed to stop after 15 steps. Then 20 steps. Then 30.
As the trail curved around the last draw, it was the silty a gray color that reminded me of a quarry. A defined path was cut into the side of the hill and it was like looking down the final turn of a racetrack before the finish line.
And then, before I knew it, I made it to the junction the trail cut down toward the parking lot. I was headed to the spot where my car sat patiently waiting for me. I trudged the final steps across the warm pavement and shrugged my pack off my shoulders and into my car’s empty trunk.
I made it! I was finally done.
HIGHLIGHTS
- Crossing the highest point on the Timberline Trail and the surreal sight of glaciers up close.
- Everything about Lamberson Butte. If I ever hike this trail again, it will definitely be one of the places I stop and set up camp! The sunrises and sunsets must be awesome there.
- Making it to the end of the Timberline Trail intact. This short 40-mile loop packed a real punch in terms of views and terrain, and it should be on everyone’s hiking bucket list!
CHALLENGES
- Nearly losing my pack to the torrents Newton Creek just because I didn’t want to take my shoes off and ford the cold water. What in the world ever made me think this was a good idea?
- Completing my thru-hike after hitting the wall. I’ve hiked thousands of miles these past few years, with much of it on more challenging terrain, yet I’ve never had something like that happen to me on a trail before!