Hiking the Timberline Trail
Preface:
In the summer of 1990 I was working inside sales rather than out of my car and at lunchtime I had the leisure to walk around an industrial park for half an hour. In mid August it occurred to me that my daily exercise qualified me to experience the Timberline Trail, a 41 mile hike that circles 11,235 foot Mt Hood at an average of 6000 feet. I saw on the map some ups and downs. The trail actually gains and loses 9000 feet along the way. The highest point is Gnarl Ridge, at Lambertson Butte, 7320 feet, while the Sandy River crossing is at 3200 feet.
My wife had recently bought me a pair of light hiking boots, and of course I was well stocked in camping equipment, so a week later I took a long weekend, kissed wife and kids goodbye, and headed out for a weekend of adventure.
Day one:
Thursday morning I stopped in Rhododendron for a breakfast of pancaked and eggs, then continued on to the Timberline Lodge, where I checked in on the back country sign up sheet and picked up a map of the route.
I carried my sleeping bag and a ground cover, some extra clothes, a rain jacket, three days of food, water and iodine water purifier and powdered lemonade to kill the iodine taste, as well as a camera and binoculars.
At ten o’clock I put my light boots on over a pair of heavy wool socks, hoisted my pack and began walking uphill to find the trail. After several minutes of confusion I found the correct trail and turned right. My plan was to take the counter clockwise route. I had read that the hike up from the White River Canyon was a miserable trudge through sand, and decided to take it from the top.
The sky was blue and birds sang, chipmunks darted, and soon I was out of reach of the sounds of cars and summer skiers, alone on the trail. Down I went, descending on a sandy path back and forth through meadows filled with flowers and songbirds. Then I reached the remains of the lateral moraine that marked the banks of White River. The canyon floor was covered with large round rocks, and the sides of the stream up to about twenty feet were made of compressed lava dust, holding thousands of rocks in place as far as I could see. Above me on the side of Mount Hood hung a glacier, dropping rocks with a series of loud crashes as it melted in the sun.
It was a long walk over rocks and across a makeshift bridge that kept me out of the rushing glacial stream.
The trail was nicely marked with sticks and flags so it was no trouble to find the trail back up the north side of the river. Up and up, switchback after switchback, some dramatic views of the valleys and of Mt Hood, and finally I topped out on the slopes of Mt Hood Meadows Ski Area. The trail disappeared into a jungle of scrub brush, finally emerging onto the ski slopes.
By noon I was overlooking Clark Canyon and stopped for lunch. It was a congenial spot beneath a group of evergreens, surrounded by yellow flowers, chipmunks and jays.
The trail down the side of the canyon was beautiful, a black diamond ski slope that revealed a series of waterfalls that are covered by snow in the winter. The canyon was another confusion of boulders and piles of sand.
The crossing was fine and after getting past the lava dust the climb out was another series of breathtaking switchbacks. After crossing a ridge, passing a junction with a trail that leads down to the base of Meadows, the trail dropped into Newton Creek. My feet were sore and my legs were tired, but it was early afternoon so I passed up a charming little campsite next to a bubbling tributary and marched onto Newton Creek. The afternoon snowmelt had raised the water level, and I saw a group of Boy scouts using ropes to negotiate the rushing water. After some investigation I said Heck and decided to just take my chances wading across. The water never got above my knees and I emerged with feet squishing in the heavy wool socks.
By now I was getting tired, and it occurred to me to change socks, but I was in a hurry to find a campsite so I marched up out of the canyon and across a steep hillside trail to a sign that pointed to a campground a couple of miles downhill. Rather than lose altitude I kept to the main trail. By now I had covered about nine miles and I suddenly felt tired. I walked a few yards off the trail and lay down under the trees and was instantly asleep.
I don’t know how long it was until voices of passing hikers woke me up. I felt refreshed, and able to undertake the climb up Gnarl Ridge. The climb was steep and the trees got smaller, and soon the Newton-Clark Glacier was in sight. I entered a clearing. A stone building was to the left of the trail and to the right was space for a campground so I took off my pack and prepared to spend the night. The elevation was about 7000 feet so it cooled off early. I spent a few minutes watching the rocks fall off of the glacier, a series of crashes like a drunk falling down the stairs with an armload of beer, then I had an early dinner and was in my bag before the sun set. Hikers were still descending the trail as I fell asleep,
Sometime in the middle of the night a blast of sound awoke me and I opened my eyes to a vast field of stars, clear and plentiful at this altitude. I was staring directly into the center of the Milky Way, and it was like seeing the navel of the universe. In some religions it is called eye of god. The diminishing sound of a jet plane explained the noise that had awakened me, and after a while my heart slowed down and I fell back asleep.
Day Two
I had never realized till awaking Friday morning that there is a breeze pushed along ahead of the rising sun. It was a glorious morning and I sat for a few minutes sipping water and enjoying the day. Then I tried to get up. Everything hurt, my feet most of all. My toenails felt as though they had been hammered by cruel interrogators, and my back and legs were stiff and sore.
After some stretching I was able to start my stove. The only stream was far down a slope of loose rocks, but I had enough water to boil for coffee. I decided to have breakfast at Cloud Cap. Actually, the map referred to Cloud Cap Inn, and as I shouldered my pack and began walking I started fantasizing about a nice little restaurant with a phone, which I could use to call Jane to drive up and rescue me.
Above me was Lamberson Butte, the highest point of the Timberline Trail at 7320 feet, and it was a stiff climb first thing in the morning. Fortunately I found several streams to fill my water bottle before I got to the snowfields which covered the trail.
At one point I looked back down to the clearing where I had camped and saw what looked like a person running. Before I got to the far side of the pass I was sure that I saw several more runners.
I now entered the most glorious part of the hike so far, a comfortable gradual downhill walk, with Mt. Adams and the Hood River Valley spread out before me. If only my toes were not so sore. As I came to the Cooper Spur trail I heard the pounding feet of a runner, so I sat down to watch him pass. He looked like he was racing and was in no mood to converse. As I descended to the Cloud Cap Campground more runners swept past me.
At the campground it was all explained. There were several support vans and a group of people serving water and snacks. A hospital in Milwaukee, Wisconsin employed a group of doctors and nurses who were long distance runners and had sent them to Oregon for a race around Mt. Hood. They began before dawn and according to the nice lady explaining it to me, some of them might be arriving back at Timberline well into the night.
She also told me that the Cloud Cap Inn was not open and there was no telephone.
I had breakfast sitting at a standard park table and bench and was able to fill up with water from a faucet, obviating the use of water purifier. Using lemonade to kill the iodine flavor was not working out; the sugar in the lemonade began to make my teeth ache.
Setting out again with a full stomach I encountered a lady who was returning from a night camping at Elk Cove. I asked her to call Jane and say that I was doing fine. Jane told me later that the lady said I actually looked worse for wear.
The rushing streams coming from Coe and Eliot glaciers roared through steep canyons with unstable walls, but both canyons had bridges at the bottom, otherwise the crossing would have tedious and dangerous.
After those two crossings the trail became a pleasant up and down across the north side of Mt Hood. I ate lunch in Elk Cove alongside a bubbling little stream where I was able to soak my aching feet. My toes were already turning purple where the nails were jammed. I met several campers, solo and in groups, who were hiking in from trailheads along the way. I passed Wy’East Basin and Eden Park, which both offered pleasant camping, but it was too early in the afternoon to consider stopping.
I was hoping to camp at Cairn Basin, the last camping area before dropping into the Sandy River canyon. Cairn Basin, as the name indicates, has several rock buildings like tiny castles nestled high up on a ridge above the trail. The campsites, however, were closed due to overuse. A sign pointed me to a three mile detour for camping, but I was doggedly determined to move forward, not sideways, so I started the ever steeping descent down Bald Mountain Ridge. Dusk was near and I hoped to hurry down to a stream where I could find a place to camp and boil water. My feet began to send shocks of pain with every step down. The ridge was spectacular, seeming in some places to be ten feet wide with a panorama view of the Sandy River Glacier and the huge cirque that dumps rock and melted snow down to the beginning of the river. Finally I stopped and removed my boots and socks and tried to hike in my camp sandals. I was passed by a couple of rangers who made comments after they went on down the trail about the gear some people hike in.
Still descending what seemed an endless steep trail I could no longer keep walking. It was going to get dark soon. I stepped off the trail under some trees in area that looked flat enough that I would not roll off into eternity. I drank the a few drops from my water bottle, nibbled some cheese and sausage, and crawled exhausted into my bag. Squirrels and night creatures and my imagination woke me several times in the night.
Day Three
I awoke with bones aching, drank the rest of my water, hoisted my pack and with my boots back on returned to my descent. I stopped at the junction of the Timberline Trail with the Pacific Crest Trail, and my path turned what seemed a u turn the way I had already come but several hundred feet lower. The map showed that I had about 22 miles to go to my car. I was on a 4 mile switchback and now I was headed back towards Mt Hood, often stopping to gaze at the west side of Mount Hood and the vast Sandy Glacier hanging above the trees. At last I came to a small tributary to Muddy Fork that featured several campsites so I stopped for breakfast.
Muddy fork was a series of streams, one after the other across a valley floor, and then I was on a decent trail that finally passed Ramona Falls, where I rested and stared at the falling water, glistening and ever changing across a broad rough cliff, like a tapestry of light as the sun reflected off of the falls. It was hallucinatory, but finally a family group came chattering up from the Ramona Falls trail head and I roused myself and prepared myself for the big challenge, crossing the Sandy River. Every summer it seems there is an article about a hiker swept away trying to make this crossing.
Fortunately it was still early enough in the day that the snow melt had not raised the river level, so I was able to use rocks and logs to make a dry crossing. On the other side I stopped by a small stream for lunch. I was now at the lowest point of the trail, and ahead of me it was going to be nothing but up.
The trail up from the Sandy glacier was steep but the footing was good. I soon came out of the forest and into bright blazing sunlight. It was baking hot and whenever I came to a patch of shade I leaned on my ski pole for a short rest.
At first I thought I heard the twitter of birds, but the sound shortly resolved itself into female conversation. A group of young lady hikers came striding past me. They were on their way for a weekend camping at Paradise Park, and flowed by me in small clumps of laughter and conversation, then disappeared up a steep trail to the left. It was the middle of the afternoon and I considered following them to the campsites, but decided, again, to keep forging ahead on the main Timberline Trail.
I began passing level spots with tents alongside bubbling streams. The view of the forest to the west was magnificent and promised a lovely sunset. But on I trudged.
The map said I had about 4 miles to go. If I took it easy and slept in this area I would awake refreshed for the final push to my car. I had enough food for two more days. But my toes throbbed. There was one more steep gorge between me and Timberline Lodge. I decided to forge ahead.
Down I went, toes jamming. Happy hikers were climbing out of the gorge to camp at Paradise Park. “How far to the top?” they asked. “Just around the next turn it levels out,” I replied, chuckling evilly to myself.
I bathed my feet in the rushing water after I crossed the stream. Cooling my feet seemed to help for the first hundred yards. It was a slow crawl up the trail. Finally I got to the level of the ski area, and after crossing a few streams ski lifts began to appear.
I took a deep breath of relief when I got to Timberline Lodge. At least someone would find my body if I collapsed. The walk across the unforgiving pavement of the parking lot was torture, but at last I got to my car and dropped my pack on the ground.
I stopped in Rhododendron for a burger and milkshake. Three days of sweating on the trail meant that I had the line waiting to order all to myself.
It was still light when I got home. Jane and Zack and Andria were glad to see me and led me to the shower. Jane brought me a can of Coors. Clean and fresh I sipped my beer. I could unpack in the morning.
Epilogue:
A couple of nights later I was awakened by Jane. Something sharp in the bed has jabbed her. We turned on the light. There was one of the nails of my big toe, fallen off in the sheets. The second came off a few nights later.
I made the Timberline Trail hike for most of the next ten years. I discovered a charming little campsite at the top of the Bald Mountain switchback. Some years I took my daughter’s German shepherd, who carried his own food and water, and a few things of mine. Then in 2000, when we were training for the Portland Marathon, another of the runners and I decided to make the hike. When we got to the Cloud Cap Campground we met a ranger, who said that a large portion of the Coe glacier had melted in the spring and not only washed away the bridges crossing both the creeks, but the rushing water had also washed away the sides of the creeks, leaving steep unstable cliffs. We would need rope and a group of at least four people to attempt the crossing. So we turned back. I have never attempted it since.
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