Page 46 - WTP VOl.XII #2

The best time to hike the Eagle Creek Trail in Or- egon’s Columbia Gorge is in late September. Fat salmon crowd into the creek to spawn then. Shiny crimson fish wriggle and shimmy through the clear bright water to release their eggs before they die. Also in early fall, leaves on the Bigleaf Maple, at least the trees that survived the devastating 2017 fire, turn Meyer’s Lemon yellow, bringing to the shaded, other- wise dark, canyon a festival of light.
Like many hikes in the Gorge, the Eagle Creek Trail leads to waterfalls. Getting to my favorite, Punchbowl Falls, isn’t a hard hike. The elevation is low and the trail not especially steep. However, there is one thing to keep in mind.
The trail climbs gradually from its beginning at creek level. When you reach the highest point, the path shrinks down to a thread barely wide enough for two hikers. If you’re the least bit bothered by heights, the only way to get safely past this point is to be lucky enough to get to walk on the inside, where you can grab onto a cable attached to the rock.
I have long been drawn to places like the Columbia Gorge, where trees and creeks, lakes and waterfalls abound. Being in nature, especially in wilderness areas where it’s easy to leave the crowd behind, lets me focus on something other than obsessing over my problems. And nowhere does my mind become razor- sharp, not letting in anything but what’s happening in the present moment, than on a remote trail, where one false step could mean the end of my life.
Several months ago, I joined my first-ever, multi- day hiking tour with a group of strangers. By the clear September morning when I stood in a circle, outside the Grand Junction, Colorado, hotel where I’d slept the night before, and said my name and where I was from, I had nearly gotten through an entire year since I’d lost my husband Richard to cancer. In our thirty years together, Richard and I
had followed an untold number of trails, challeng- ing and easy, boring and beautiful, at sea level and higher elevations that made breathing hard. On uphill portions, I always went first, since I carried the trail book and served as our guide. Heading downhill, I followed, because Richard practically skipped ahead on this part, while I tiptoed down rocky sections, taking my time.
After Richard’s death, I had to find a way to move forward alone. I knew that meant not running away from grief, which wouldn’t have been possible anyway, but letting tears come. At the same time,
I needed to find a reason to go on. One thing was clear. I had to spend time in the great outdoors. And I needed to hike.
I am not averse to hiking alone, at least close to home. Instead of avoiding solitary walks and hikes,
I seek them out. As often as I can, I hit the trail in a state park, a short drive from my house. This is far from a wilderness hike. All the way up to the lake and back, friendly mountain bikers, joggers and other hikers stream past.
There is nothing dangerous or scary about this hike. In the handful of places where the trail climbs high above the canyon and is strewn with jagged rock, I move to the inside, in case I might take a fall.
I know enough about the perils of the outdoors to not take these solo treks too far. In the twelve years my husband and I lived in Oregon before moving to California, we saw too many news reports of people getting lost in remote areas, with some tragically perishing before they’d been found.
That awareness, plus craving company, since I often spend days alone, convinced me to join a group hik- ing tour. On our first hike, I came face to face with a challenge, reminiscent of the Eagle Creek Trail.
My favorite book of all time is The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen, a diary of a journey the author took with the famed biologist, George Schaller, in Ne- pal. Schaller was there to study the Himalayan Bharal (blue sheep) that frequented the high mountainous terrain. Matthiessen accompanied him on a more spiritual quest.
At one point in the weeks-long trek, the perilously thin trail barely clung to the cliff edge, high above a
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Sherpas
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