“Here I am, at the start of my hike up Dog Mountain. I got here at six thirty in the morning in order to beat the throng. I’m told that crowds begin to converge on this trail early, and the only way to get a parking spot at the trailhead is to beat the rush. It looks like I managed to do that. There’s a dozen or so cars here and all of them are empty. People must already be on the trail.
I guess I’ll get on the trail too. Rumor has it that it is a very difficult climb to the top of the mountain. There was one woman who said that it is not so bad as people say, but she’s an animal who could run to Albuquerque just to get a bowl of green chili stew and then run back before the evening rush hour, so I’m not putting to much stock by her description of it. Well, here goes.
Phew! It’s been only ‘up’ ever since the first step! And I really mean UP. The trail is not very wide and it is easily a forty five degree slope going up one side of it and a forty five degree downslope on the other. I have taken frequent rest stops, leaning on a walking stick that I made out of a young maple tree that was growing just across the backyard fence in my neighbor’s yard. He doesn’t care, and I hate having maples grow so close to my house. Their seeds and leaves clog my gutters, and the shade encourages moss growth on my roof. Yes, it serves much better as a walking stick; keeps me vertical when walking on the loose rock and helps me to propel myself forward and upward.
I was surprised by the number of people who passed me by. It’s not that I’m a mountain goat or anything like that. Heck, I’m 69 years old and I’m amazed that I’m this far up the hill in the first place. No, it’s the raw number of hikers that surprises me. Where do they all come from? Is anybody left in Portland or Vancouver? By ones and in groups they stream past me, and I step aside to let them pass. Actually, I appreciate the rest.
I haven’t gotten out of the trees yet, but I’ve found a wide spot in the trail where I can sit down on a log, drink some water, eat a handful of trail mix, and appreciate the fresh forest air and the silence. Well, sort of appreciate the silence. The tinnitus that sings constantly in my ears prevents me from enjoying true silence. I cannot hear the cars on Highway 14 far below me however, and if a train has chugged by on the tracks that run along the Columbia River, I didn’t hear it. Only the birds, the occasional rustlings of what I presume to be small animals in the undergrowth, and the breeze blowing through the trees which surround me make any noise at all. And those are soothing noises, so that’s all right with me.
I’ve seen some wood anemones growing among the vegetation between the trees. At least, that’s what I think they are. They’re delicate little white flowers. I’m told that there are many, many more flowers further up the trail. I think I’ll get up now and go have a look-see.
Oh, good Lord! This stinking trail really does just go up. The leg of the hike that I just finished was a longer version of the first one, but I’ve finally found a proper place to take a breather. I’ve come out of the trees and found a cluster of boulders on an open spur of the hillside. A young couple was leaving as I arrived, so I have a sweet little spot to sit on with a magnificent view of the river rolling to the west.
I’ve got no idea how high I am but I’m looking down at the tops of some hills, and a barge on the river looks pretty small. There is a train on the Oregon side of the river that looks like one of those really little model trains; what are they? I think they may be H O gauge. I don’t remember. But it’s really small.
My legs are burning pretty good, but it’s a nice burn. The quads, which I know is actually a group of four muscles in each thigh, have not worked like this for a very long time; not since before the heart attack and surgery that I had three years ago. I’m happy to have made it this far, and if it doesn’t get any worse I should make it to the top in pretty good shape. My hip joints can get a little balky sometimes, but so far so good.
There is a profusion of yellow flowers that completely surrounds me. They grow straight up the hillside behind me, and straight down the hillside in front of me. They are quite beautiful but I have to confess a bit of disappointment. Long ago my brother and I were traveling through Arizona in the springtime and we pulled off to the side of a very rural two lane road, literally somewhere south of the middle of nowhere, to sleep for the night.
When we woke up the next morning we found ourselves surrounded by a riot of flowers of all shapes and colors. It reminded me of the room that the river of chocolate flowed through in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. You know, Willy Wonka. The Gene Wilder version. I’ve never seen anything like that before or since. I kinda thought that I might see something like that here, but I didn’t.
Well, time to pick it up. I’ve chugged down some more water and trail mix, and a couple of chunks of bison for a little protein. My legs are still tired but I think I have a little more left in them. Here goes.
Oh, man. I’m whipped! The last leg was insane! Most of the grade was steep, as it has been since I first set foot on the trail, except for one section about two thirds of the way through it. That one was steeper. And there were no switchbacks on that leg. It was a beast, and that’s what I called it: The Beast. The damned thing just went up. And up. And up. There were a few trees growing next to the trail that I could lean against in order to let other hikers pass by, or simply because I couldn’t take another step without rest.
I thought several times about cashing in my chips on The Beast. I mean, I’m not trying to prove anything here. Or am I? I have to admit that there’s a little pride at work here. I really want to say that I’ve mastered Dog Mountain, and this may be my last chance to do it. But first I had to master The Beast, so I’d rest and walk, rest and walk, rest and walk.
About two hundred yards down the trail from where I now sit I broke out of the trees and onto a vast sweep of the mountainside that was thick with a carpet of the ubiquitous yellow flowers. I took one picture of the hillside that included a tree, for the vertical perspective, and the horizon for the horizontal. The angle is easy to see, and it’s mind blowing. I’m now seated on a chunk of concrete on another small level area. Someone said that the chunk was a remnant of a Forest Service observation platform, and I guess it probably was. But how on earth did they ever get the materials up here?
More water, more rest, more bison and trail mix. The view is positively stunning. I am well above many of the hills and mountains in the Columbia River Gorge and the river itself is a blue ribbon running far below me. The sun has climbed in the sky and has grown rather warm, and I’m glad for my hat with a broad brim and a flap down the back of the neck, and also for the big, poofy long-sleeved hippy shirt that a friend made for me. My skin has been damaged by the years that I spent trying to put a tan on skin that refused to be tanned. I don’t do that any more.
The breeze is very pleasant. It flows up from under my shirt and out through the open neck and the long poofy sleeves, cooling me down and helping me to prepare for what I’m told is the last leg before the summit. The worse is over, some of the other hikers say. I certainly hope so.
Ah, the top! Indeed, the last leg was easier than The Beast, and otherwise quite doable. The only problem was that I am nearly spent from my earlier exertions. Man, am I tired! But here I am, on a rather small knob on the top of Dog Mountain. The summit is jammed with people, many of whom look as if they have just been out for a Sunday stroll. That somehow just seems to be wrong. I’m pretty sure that I would be exhilarated if I wasn’t exhausted. But the view from up here is beyond belief, and also beyond my pathetic ability to describe it.
The top of a very good-sized hill adjacent to the River is seen far below me. The Wind River meanders through its valley on it’s way to join the Columbia several miles to the west. You can feel the elevation, see almost all the way to Portland, over fifty miles away, and smell only the clean air blowing either up or down the Gorge. It’s hard to say exactly which way it’s blowing because of the swirls and eddies it makes as it curls around hills and mountains and bends in the mighty Gorge.
The best part of this has been that I have not experienced one iota of chest pain, and no more shortness of breath than one would expect for any other sixty-nine year old. Or a thirty-nine year old, for that matter. I’ve put my rebuilt ticker to the test, and it looks like my surgeon’s work is holding up just fine. I don’t take that for granted. Not one little bit. God and Dr. Martin have given me a few more years to run at peak performance. I’m thankful to both and determined to make the most of it.
Hah! Back at the trailhead. I’ve just made a seamless push to get from the peak to the parking lot, and at last I’m here. Downhill is almost as demanding as uphill. Almost. In fact, it can be more hazardous. I slipped in one pile of loose rock and fell right on my tush. I could feel my hip begin to tighten up immediately, and that made me nervous. It loosened up however, and the trip down was somewhat easier than the one up. The path back down is longer than the one that I took up, so the grade was easier, and that was a bonus as I see it.
And now it’s time to drive home, although a beer and a burger in Stevenson sounds good too. I may be sore as the dickens tomorrow but I won’t really care. From this day forward I will be able to truthfully say that I walked the Dog, and that makes it all worth it.