Nick and Jane tour Europe

For our respective 60^thand 50^thbirthdays we decided to spend two weeks in Europe.

We read several guidebooks, the principal being Backdoor Europe,  by Rick Steves.  This gave us our basic mode of operation.  We planned to  travel light, taking only 2 bags, one a wheeled carry on, the other a light shoulder bag for incidentals.  This would allow us to be totally flexible, go by train and foot or Metro, meet local people, and stay in inexpensive hotels with no elevators but lots of charm.

After weeks of studying Frommers and Fodors and “Paris on $100 a Day” we settled on landing in Zurich, to spend 2 days with Herb and Suzanne, thus easing into the European experience with a trustworthy guide.

We would then go by train to Florence for 2 days; followed by 2 days in Cinque Terra, a rustic Italian Riviera recommended by friend Peggy and Rick Steves; then 2 days unplanned but ending in Marseille for the night train to Paris, where we stay 3 eays, then overnight in London; then home for Nick while Jane stays another week with sister Jean.

Saturday 9 May 1998, 0930

Switzerland

We fly from Portland to Cincinnati, where we wander around the airport peeking out at Ohio, then off to Zurich.  The flight is long and painful with minimal sleep.  As the plane flies into the dawn we see below us the coast of France, our first view of Europe.

We see below us farms, fields surrounded by trees, then cities, Paris in the distance to the north. Lower we pass over fields of bright yellow rapeseed, then a river, a large nuclear plant, the Swiss countryside, undulating hills with the Alps high and snow covered to the South, and finally we land in Zurich airport.

There is Suzanne, big smile on her face, holding a sign “Merker.”  Merker himself has gone to Portland for  his son’s graduation from Reed College.  We must have passed in the night.

After the hugs she shows around: we register our Europass, purchase couchet for Florence, and partake of our first coffee in Europe.

The Zurich airport has a huge shopping center and rooms to lean up and below that the train station to the city, where Suzanne takes on a walking tour.

We marvel at the narrow streets, how lovely is the Lindenhof, a park overlooking the old city. We pass by unearthed Roman baths and rest with lunch in an outdoor restaurant next to the river, next to the lake, and next to the women’s bath house, no men allowed.  After lunch we view the church where Zwingli preached “describing hell so vividly that Martin Luther was frighten to hear him.” Another church had windows by Chagall. In one student section we passed an apartment where Lenis lived before he returned alter Russian history.

Herb and Suzanne’s apartment has a view of the lake below with mountains rising to the Alps in the distance.

Dinner was at Widenbad, a farm restaurant outdoors under the trees.  We had rosti, a potato dish, and local wine.

Sleep was a relief.

5-11-98  Monday

Breakfast on the patio. Soft boiled eggs in colorful egg cups, strawberries, Gruyer cheese, bread, jam.  Icronocan coffee.  Jane is dazzled y eggs in egg cups.  We suggest taking the bread with us for our upcoming hike in the Alps, but Suzanne is puzzled.  “It would not be fresh,” she explains.

We train to Lucerne, arriving in time for a br ief walk before our boat leaves for our hiking destination.  A covered bridge and towers from the original walled city remain from the medieval pass.

On our boat rip we are entertained by the Swiss Air Force Precision Flying Team, six jets in gleaming red and white performing maneuvers overhead.

Hotels and villages spot the lakeside.  The Alps rise to the south.  We arrive at the village of Kehrsiten, which is at 1400 feet, and ride the funicular, a cog railway, up to the resort of Burgenstock at 2867 feet.  The lake seems directly below us, we could jump in from here. Cowbells ring in the fields below the hotel on the side away from the lake.  We are on a ridge and will hike to the highest point then down the other side. After a half hour hike we come to an elevator, rising separate from the hillside.  The trail is on a hillside as steep as the hike to Multnomah Falls, almost a cliff, but much higher.  At the top of the elevator is a restaurant with a view!  Hammetschwand, 3655 feet.  

We sit at an outside table and drink beer, eat sandwiches, 10 inches of French baguette sliced down the middle, stuffed with ham or sausage and cheese.  Brown Swiss cows munch grass across a fence, their bells clanging away.  This satisfies a boyhood dream. Beyond them is a meadow which falls steeply away to our destination, a village on an arm of the lake around our ridge from Luzerne.

We hike to the top of the ridge, view the Alps, the lake and towns below us.  A barge filled with ore is like a toy in the water below us.

Our descent is through farmers’ fields.  Bareheaded workers wave as they mow and rake the hay.  Sometimes our path is through the farm yards.  “Gruste” hello, we all smile on a sunny day.  The hike is downhill and very steep so we are exharusted when we reach Ennetburgen, where we snack in a park by the lake where school children swim and boat and gather around talking while a boy plays a guitar. 

Jane begins seeking egg cups in the small shops.

The return boat trip stops at several ornate hotels, some with casinos.  Our boat has a new crew member, who vainly tries to throw his looped mooring line over a bollard at each stop we make while his crewmates laugh.

Dinner in Zurich is at Zaughaus Keller, an old armory built in the mid 1400’s and since remodeled. Old armor and weapons such as William Tell used hang from the wall.

We board the night train for Florence, a six person, 3 to a side couchette, which recalls memories of junior officers quarters on my ship in the Navy.

Nick and Jane in Italy

Tuesday, 5-12-98

Florence

The couchette, a sleeping car, was hot and noisy with people entering at different stops to crawl into their respective bunk.

We emerged from our couchette sweatsoaked and tired to see Tuscany, Northern Italy: rolling hills, grape field, and uninhabited woodlands.  Part of our train ticket was a gift of a breakfast snack as we disembarked the train.

The Florence train station is much ore exotic than the tidy Swiss edifice.  To Jane’s dismay, the lady’s toilette was a hole in the floor.

Outside, Florence was not yet quite awake, so we munched our breakfast of roll and juice and yogurt in a plaza near our hotel, which was not yet open.

Finally the night porter, unshaven, sleepy eyed, but friendly, led us up two flights of stairs let us wash up in the bathroom down the hall.  We were able to store our bags in a corner of the common room, which contained several couches, a cooler filled with beer and water, and a small bar. It was time to explore Florence.

First we had coffee, standing at the counter listening to the unintelligible conversation.  Then we walked up the street to see the Duomo, the cathedral with the famous dome by Brunelleschi, a wonder to think about such a vast dome built without the aid of a crane.

By this time a long line has formed at Acadame so of we to Uffizzi, the Palace of the Medici’s, now a vast museum of Renaissance paintings and sculpture.  In front is the plaza where Savanorola preached to the people and burned material goods: “vanities.”  A copy of David and an original Hercules as well as fountains and other statues surround the plaza.

We return to the hotel, check in, nap and shower, then walk to the Pitti Palace.  Florence is quite compact, and the traffic is a revelation, vespas and tiny cars vying for space at high speeds, pedestrians dashing when they can, children sit behind the Vespa driver reading a book, studying on the way to school.

We cross the Arno via the Ponte Vecchio, an ancient covered bridge with shops on every side.

Pitti Palace is so jammed with paintings our brains overload, it is hard to pick individual paintings from what begins to seem like wallpaper.  We stroll back to the hotel for a nap.  Our room is large with an overhead fan, bath and bidet, TV in Italian, I watch the Simpsons then fall asleep.

We go out for dinner in the evening, pizza and chianti on Plaza del Republic.  We briefly shop for egg cups on the way home but none please Jane.

Wednesday, 5-13-98

Early breakfast in the common room of the hotel, coffee, cereal (What’s up with warm milk, I grumble to Jane, she says I used the milk meant for the coffee, oops)

Hard roll with jam and juice.  

We get lost going to the Academe Belle Arti and end up at Piazza San Croce, a young girl informs us, where we look at a large church and the Bibliotecca Nazionale.  Finally we reach the Accademia Gallery. The line is short and we pass by Michaelangelo’s Slaves (or Prisoners) and a Pieta to stand awestruck before David.

In all his glory.

We explore other rooms full of later marble sculptures and older pre-Renaissance paintings.  We buy some souvenirs.  Outside I buy a nice leather wallet from a street vendor and then we visit a department store, where Jane buys a summer dress.

On the way to our hotel we stop at a shop for coffee and some of the sandwiches we have grown to love.

After a nap we bus to Sienna, through Tuscany countryside of walled cities on hill tops, fields of grapes, valleys and hills covered with brush and trees.  Not a lot of water.

Sienna is a hilltop city, surrounded by a wall, surmounted by a tall bell tower.  The plaza before the church was laid out in 1340.  Narrow stairs lead steeply to the top of the tower, but the view is worth the sweat and pain.  After a couple of hours in the narrow streets, up hills and down stairways, we bus back to Florence.  Beer is followed by another nap.  Dinner is spaghetti with clam sauce for me, Jane has Penne with crab, salad, and wine. We stop in a local bar for brandy and conversation, a conversation limited by our lack of Italian, but we find enough people who speak English to enjoy ourselves.

5-14-98 

Thursday

Cinque Terra

Early breakfast.  The warm milk is indeed meant for the coffee. We stop for a leisurely coffee standing up for a last view of Florence traffic; a dad with two kids on a vespa, young women in black, stylish guys in jeans and running shoes and t-shirts, all smoking.

We stroll to Track # 2 for the train to La Spezia, but are alarmed to discover fine print which says “holiday only” in English, so we scurry around to find a train to Pisa. There is one with a twenty minute wait for IC Special to La Spezia, but, the train is delayed a half hour. Finally we hop into a first class cabin and speed through dry dusty towns whose major industry is still marble and granite quarried from the mountains that glisten white as snow above Carrera.  We crane our necks but the leaning tower is not visible from the train.

La Spezia is small and hot but sailors in the station indicate the sea is near.  The train ride to Manorela, one of the five towns that make up Cinque Terra, is ten minutes.  We emerge from a tunnel to see the Mediterranean sparkling all the way to Africa beyond the horizon.

Manorola clings to a cliff a short walk through a tunnel from the Stazione.  Good luck.  We ring the bell at Marina  Piccola, a man appears who speaks no English but takes us to a waitress at the restaurant who says that a room is available.  Up two flights of narrow stairs and we have a view of the sea from our terrace and a private bath.  Lunch of spaghetti with clams for me, Penne with shrimp and salad for Jane, three beers looking at the sea below, the houses seem barely attached to the cliff, rowboats on the calm sea.

After a nap we hike to Riomaggiora, a trail through tunnels, along cliffs with terraced gardens rising above us filled with flowers, then, as we near the village the little hillside gardens turn to lemons and grapes.  The main foot path through Riomaggiore is fairly lelvel but the side streets go briskly up and down;  up to the terraced garden to the top of the hill or falling away to the sea where a tiny harbor holds a few fishing  boats and welcomes a small cruise boat from La Spezia.  We wander to the central business section, no egg cups here to suit Jane, but we buy cheese and tomatoes.  The old women sit in small groups talking as evening approaches.  As we leave town we find a bunch a men, quietly looking out to sea; occasionally a word passes.

Back in Manorola we buy wine, locally made, and recline on our terrace to watch the residents take their evening stroll and talk about the day.  After a nap we take a short walk to a cliff beyond the village to watch young boys swimming in the harbor while an old man fishes.  The sun sets, a group of young tourists drink in the dusk.

In the evening an off shore breeze from the storm to the south causes the waves to lap on the harbor walls.  Frogs croak in the stream beneath the road.  

Men talk in the taverns till 0130 when women’s voices call softly the names of their husbands from the balconies or windows and in five minutes the town is silent.

The houses in Cinque Terra are brightly painted, yellow or red, in no particular pattern.  The sea is choppy when we arise at 0700.  No shops are open till after 0800 so we hike forty five minutes Corniglia, following a primitive mountain path till we reach the area of the beach, which offers no sand, but rocks and pebbles sloping gently into the sea.  There is a long row of hostels, or one room sleeping quarters, which overlook the beach. There is a park, a boat launching winch, and several kitchens.

The town of Corniglia is a steep ten minute climb up from the Stazione.  Many terraced gardens.  On the winding road a car approaches very fast, honks once and disappears around a blind corner.

Manorola seems more charming, so we return for breakfast of coffee, juice, yogurt, bread and jam. Filling and tasty, but Jane briefly pines for a 3 egg omelet and hash browns.  Then a nap.

In rise and quickly train to La Spezia to verify our train schedule while Jane checks out the beer and pizza choices.  She waves from our terrace as I stroll down Manorola’s single street, now crowded with day visitors.

After lunch we go for a quick dip in the Mediterranean.  It is much saltier than the pacific, but not nearly as cold as the water off of Oregon.

Back on our terrace we have more beer and watch the parade below us of people, students, local fishermen working on their boats, a group of Germans who settle in a tavern and sing folk songs from different countries, each followed by a loud cheer.

A short walk is followed by a dinner of spinach lasagna and “rompo” which is similar to flounder, wine and bread, all on the recommendation of our host, who speaks no English, but communicates by loudly shouting Italian, becoming impatient until we agree.

We sip wine as the sun sets, chatting with a Swiss couple who own an apartment in Manorola and come down three or four times a year.  “In the autumn it is wonderful, you can swim in the sea for an hour.”  The village is remarkably quiet in the evening.  The people respect their neighbor’s space. No radio, no tv, little shouting.

France

Up at 0500, train to La Spezia, then through coastal villages to Genoa, no time to view the statue of Columbus as we change to the French line, hopping on the train to Nice. We share our compartment with an Australian couple.  We chatter all the way to Nice while a fierce looking French lady glares in disapproval. We are not the only objects of her haughty gaze.  As we cross into France two policemen come by to check passports but give four elderly tourists speaking English a mere glance.  The Aussies get off in Nice, where the man confides that a surprise yacht trip awaits his wife.

We pass Monte Carlo, to elegant for our taste.  We have to stop in Cannes, our first French lunch: water, no gas, and foot long ham and cheese sandwiches.  It is a mental jolt to switch to French language and money.  For the only time on our trip the waiter tries to short change me. I catch him my accident, I stammer in confusion 

And he thinks I have caught him out and places more money in my hand with a grimace.

Cannes is in mourning for Frank, who died that day, so we pay our respects by humming “My Way” and, unable to find a hotel willing to rent for one night we hop back on the next train to Marseille.

Provence countryside is flat, broad farmland rather than tiny rock walled plots as in Tuscany. The French farmhouses are covered with dark stucco or mud in contrast to the Italian bare rock.

A sweet elderly lady at “SOS for travelers” in the train station-Garde gave a map, found us a hotel, called for a room “Doble!” and got us a weekend special rate, all with no English. The steps exiting the Garde are notably long and wide.

Marseille is vibrant and exciting, a mixture of Africans and North Africans and French.  Walking down Rue Canitierre we meet a parade of citizens waving flags: “French-Palestine Support.”  They beat drums and shout and wave to friends.

A storm has chases us across the South of France so we scurry to out hotel.

Our room is small but clean, private bath, nice view of the street four floor below.  There is a large and tidy room for breakfast off the lobby.

We stroll down Quai du Port, looking for egg cups and comparing restaurants for the famous Marseille bouliabaise.  Surrounding the port are buildings six stories high, gleaming white.  A statue atop a church atop a hill overlooks everything.

The waiters on the west side of the port wear jeans and loafers or shorts and track shoes.  Fewer women wear black than in Italy.  In all the countries so far everyone, even the waiters, smoke, and dogs run freely among the tables.

The bouliabaise is excellent.  First a soup, a sauce from the boiled fish, dried bread with mustard spread to drop in the soup and soak it up.  Then a fish dish, mussels, several ten inch fish filets and steaks from larger fish, with potatoes, covered with a curry flavored sauce’  House wine.

In Marseille the public WC consists of a porcelain hole in the ground with foot rests to stand on, or squat if necessary.

5-17-98

Good sleep in Marseille, continental breakfast in the hotel, coffee, hard roll or croissant, yogurt, apple sauce, chat with a young lady from Vienna her for a conference on drugs in prison.

We c ross the street for espresso in a sidewalk café among early rising locals, next to 

“Erotic Peep Show.”  A lady stops by after a hard night’s work, her voice rasping as she orders.

Train to Arles for the day, past broad fields, stone barns with red tile roofs.

Arles is very medieval, quiet, narrow streets curving among four story buildings, eleventh century church, Roman ruins, seventeenth century city hall, eighteenth century buildings using chunks of previous buildings.

Jane finds the perfect egg cup, shining in Van Gogh yellow in a shop window, but the shop is closed on Sunday!

We lunch in Place du Forum, shaded by plane trees a statue of Mistral who revived Provencal customs in Arles.  Two tattooed street guys with a German Shepherd come by and perform fire tricks and pass a gat.  Our waitress takes water to the dog, kneeling to encourage him.

The Sunday crown: stylish guys with sport coats over tee shirts, women wear no make up nor bras. Jeans and polo shirt with tennis shoes is the most common garb.  The tourist items for sale:  ceramics and skirts or table cloth all use yellow and rust colors in Van Gogh motif—or did they come first?

In Les Alyscamps I take a picture of Jane in  the same scene as Gauguin’s painting.

We have a beer in Place de Voltaire, full of families on a Sunday outing.  The outdoor restaurants crowd the square, each identified by the color of the chair and umbrella.

On the train back to Marseille we talk to Madeleine, who is 78; her husband died long ago, her daughter is a professor in Marseille, her grandson is 18.  She recommends a restaurant, gives directions discusses the weather and she speaks No English.  Fortunately I have a phrase book.

We follow her directions to the fancier east side of the Port, have ravioli for Jane and Calzone for me. Red wine.

Hiking Around Mount Hood on the Timberline Trail

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.

Climbing Mount Hood

Climbing Mount Hood

As I may have mentioned, whenever I remember doing something foolhardy, I recall that Gowdy was involved, urging me along a steep snowfield using day old  ice axe holes, scrambling up a ridge of rotten rock on the west side of Mt Washington, sharing a jug old Old Mr Cribari rotgut red…there we were.

So when he took an art class from Foster and decided that his project would be filming climbs of the major Oregon peaks there I was, carrying a rope, belaying him and Brad up a pitch, whatever I could do.  Except for turning back near the top of Mt Jefferson, steep sloppy sliding snow proving too much for us, we had only Mt Hood left.

Brad was at this time an experience snow and ice climber.  He had spent time in Alaska as a volunteer in Mountain Rescue, and had climbed Mt Blanc, so we deferred to his expertise when he suggested we do the “sunshine” route, up the Eliot glacier above Cloud Cap.

We had become rather expansive in choosing our climbing partners, and this trip included, besides the three of us, Steve and Nita Grace, and Dick Lacoma, a Phi Psi, a Potter, a wrestler, a nice guy, but never in his life a mountain climber.  There might have been more but I forget.

We spent the night by the stone building above the Mt Hood Trail, and set out in the early predawn darkness.  

It turned out that we were too late in the year, and as we moved slowly up the glacier we kept turning to avoid chasms and crevasses in the snow.  As the sun came up we reassessed our options.  The glacier was more than we could handle.  Finally we decided to try the lateral moraine on our right as we looked up.

It was steep, and, being a moraine, merely a loosely compacted ridge of sand and gravel.  It got steeper.

Every step released an avalanche on the climber below.  Every movement was tentative, testing the stability of our foot placement, gently placing our ice axes for balance.

At one point we were on a thin snowfield, vertical, high up the NE side of Mt Hood, with, no doubt, a great view, to which no one paid any attention.  I became aware of a mumbling, and realized that Nita Grace, the lapsed Catholic, was reciting “Hail Mary…” under her breath.  Dick was wide eyed.  Brad was leading, I followed, hacking footsteps for the rest with my axe. We angled up the slope, right for a few steps, left for a while.  The rope stuck on a rock below Brad as he crossed the slope above me.  I gently tugged on the rope; Brad nearly fell. There was no room for a mistake. We watched the rock tumble amongst us, and all started breathing again.  The only sounds were muted “Fuck fuck shit…”

We crept on; retreating was no option.  Snow melted, constantly loosening rocks, which fell around us, tumbling down the slope below us.

My eyes were blind with sweat, I was concentrating on the step above me, I don’t know how but we got off the snow field.  A ridge of rotten rock stretched above us.

We had no choice but go on up.

It turned out the worst was behind us.  No less dangerous, but with care and caution we finally got to the top of Mt Hood.

Was it sweat, or tears of relief that blurred our vision? We collapsed and drank our water and ate our snacks and finally enjoyed the view.  For the first time that day Jim took out his movie camera.

No one even considered descending the way we had come.  We decided to descend to Timberline Lodge and a couple of us hitchhike back to Cloud Cap.

Heading down, Jim and I were feeling frisky so we began glissading, using our ice axes as drag and rudder, speeding down the snow past a long line of climbers coming up from Timberline, happy hikers out for the day.  

Suddenly they all began screaming at us  “crevasse!” So we stopped, shortly before speeding to our doom down a cliff.

Just another foolhardy move that we survived.

Several years later I was talking to Dick, and he still felt that that climb was the most dangerous moment of his life.

Nick

Climbing Around Aspen

                        Climbing Around Aspen

Aspen in the summer of 1970 was full of active people.  Rugby had become popular.  Waitresses and bartenders would bicycle up Maroon Creek or Castle Creek or up Independence Pass before showing up for their evening shift.  Therefore I was not surprised when Sally, a waitress at my favorite bar, asked me one evening if I would take her mountain climbing.  She was going out with a friend of mine and he had recommended me as a mountain guide.

She was in good shape so I agreed.  Our first climb was New York Peak, a pinnacle jutting like a diamond up from a ridge that parallels the south side of the highway up to Independence Pass.  I had climbed this peak with Axe the summer before and it seemed like a good beginner climb.  It was also visible from the highway, so she could point it out to her friends.  It offered some nice exposure and simple rock climbing and the ridge was just a short traverse away if she got nervous.

The road in is marginal but I found a flat place to park sort of close to the peak.  Our first challenge was crossing the Roaring Fork, which undercut the forest floor here and flowed far beneath us, leaving us to cross by leaping a narrow chasm.  One slip, of course, meant a painful death.  

Sally blithely leaped across the open space and I followed and up we went.  I dutifully carried my climbing rope, the same one bought in high school in a joint venture with Axe and Tiger, and probably more of a psychological aid.

It was a nice experience for her.  We stood on the summit, the wind drying our sweat, gazing at the surrounding ridges and mountaintops.   She got quite excited and said she wanted to do another one.

A few weeks later we got together and climbed Pyramid Peak.  This is a 14000 foot peak a long par five from the Maroon Bells, but the rock composing Pyramid is much more solid than the Maroon Bells, which I never dared approach.

Pyramid I had climbed with Jim and later with Lee and a couple of other guys so I felt confident to lead her up.

After leaving Maroon Lake, the climb begins with a long scrambling hike through narrow valleys and up some steep ridges.  Near the summit we came to a steep face.  I asked her if she wanted to tie in to the rope, but she said she was fine, so up we went, side by side so I could coach her on hand and foot placement.  We were having a fine time when suddenly there was a loud explosion, a blast that caused us both to flatten onto the rocks and hang on.  The blast resolved into the echo of a sonic boom; a jet fighter had zipped overhead with no consideration for who might be in a delicate position on a mountainside. We gasped and looked around.  

She said she was okay so we completed climbing the face.  From there it was a steep hike to the summit.  We sat drinking water, eating cheese and sausage, and enjoying the view of the mountains and lakes below us.  She laughed and said she wanted to do another.

Our third peak was Capitol Peak.  As some of you may remember that the mountain reached by quite a long hike in.  It was the first mountain I climbed in Colorado, with Steve and Jim about two days after we arrived in Aspen in 1967.  Then there was the climb of the pregnant women, although I don’t think that Suzi or N. G. or Deanne (did I miss anybody?) went further than the base camp.

This is another14000 foot mountain.  The first stage is a long steep hike up to a pass that can take the determined hiker to Snowmass Creek.  But the climber turns right and avoids the ridge by scrambling parallel to the ridge ever higher up the mountain until scramble and ridge meet prior to the summit at a narrow ridge, called the Knife Edge. This ridge is about 150 feet across and varies from one to two feet wide and appears to drop several hundred feet on either side. One side is an overhang.  Here Jim and Steve and I had roped up on our climb.  The crossing is accomplished by placing your hands on the overhang side, leaning back and shuffling sideways.  Although I imagine Axe could have, and probably has, jauntily strode along the ridge top, I was happy to shuffle.

We stood there looking at the Knife Edge while I explained the route and the method to cross.  I asked her again if she wanted to rope up. Nope, she said, I haven’t yet and I won’t start now.

So across we shuffled. My head was swinging back and forth, checking my progress and checking that Sally was in no danger of slipping to oblivion.  She was doing fine, and soon we were clambering up to the broad summit of Capitol Peak.

As we were hiking out, she said that she was done climbing.

A few years later I took Jane up some of these same mountains, and although she and I hiked into Capitol Lake at the base I never climbed Capitol Peak again.

Nick

Ben and Ellen's Children

Children of Ben and Ellen, by age

Ben was working as a clerk in a hotel in Blue Earth, Minnesota when he met Ellen BeaMiller, a young lady from Wisconsin.  She worked as a maid in the same hotel.

A short time later they married and Ben began working for the Post Office.

The family lived in Blue Earth until 1908, when Ben left his job at the post office and moved the family,  Ellen and six children, to North Dakota where he filed a homestead claim a few miles south of Crystal Springs.   His father and brother had moved there earlier and urged him to come. 

At first Ben raised sheep, but as war loomed in Europe he followed his neighbors in raising wheat to feed the armies.  Wheat turned out to be one disaster after another and eventually they lost the homestead and moved to the West Coast.

Ronald, born first, fought in WWI,  where he was gassed.  He came back and he and his father had words.  Ronald would not submit to the old man’s domineering ways and short temper, and swore he would never be whipped again.  When the family moved west Ronald moved to Mt Vernon, in northern Washington.   He had a farm and a great number of children. He came down to visit for his parent’s 50^th wedding anniversary, but was too ill to come down for Ben’s 100^th birthday, and died soon after. After grandma died one of his daughters, Susan, came down to care for granddad.  She left a short time later.

Vera was a schoolteacher in North Dakota.  She married a Mr Thomas, a socialist.  They had five children.   They moved to Springfield, Oregon.   At some point Mr Thomas, according to my dad, crawled out the bedroom window and hightailed it back to North Dakota, and was last seen living on an Indian reservation.

Thelma married a man named Bill Briese.  They moved to Battleground, Washington, where they had a farm, and Bill worked for the aluminum company in Vancouver, Washington during WWII and afterward.  They had one daughter.

Eleanor, or “Nonie,” married Owen Thomas, a brother of Vera’s husband, after they left  North Dakota.  He was also something of a socialist.  They settled in Springfield and raised three children.  The youngest daughter, Jackie, was near enough to my age that we were friends growing up.  Nonie was the oldest of the children who made the car trip from North Dakota.

Cecil drove the old Ford touring car from the homestead in North Dakota to Colfax, in Eastern Washington, where the nine remaining children and Ben and Ellen lived for a few years before moving to Springfield.  He married a woman named Mary, and they raised three children.  Dick was my age and we sometimes played together growing up.  Cecil worked at the Booth Kelly mill in Springfield and drank too much.  There were stories of violent behavior.  When granddad was in his seventies I heard him say he was going up and whip Cecil because he was drunk, but it was only a threat.

Aldyce was a tomboy, leading the younger children in an active lifestyle on the homestead, riding horses and playing sports with the boys.  She was rebellious and wild, and left Springfield High School during her senior year and went to San Francisco.  She never moved back, and eventually married Bill.  She never had any children.  She and Bill lived in Indiana and retired to Sun City, Arizona.  They visited Jane and me in Aspen.

Everett, my dad, was the first child born in North Dakota, August 13, 1909.  He grew up on the plains, moved west with his mother and eight siblings, Cecil driving them all,  packed into a Ford touring car, open topped, with their few belongings tied to the sides and back.  He graduated from Springfield High School  in 1929 with a number of athletic awards.  Like many star athletes before and after, he thought the glory would never end, and neglected his studies.  He struggled for work during the Depression, finally becoming head of maintenance at Chase Gardens Nursery.  Like most of his brothers and sisters he liked to drink and dance; when he was 27  he met Lois Abercrombie at a dance in Vida, a small town outside Eugene and married her a few months later, June 5, 1937.  They had a son, Nick, born April 29, 1938, and 13 years later a daughter, Cynthia.  Everett had joined the Army National Guard in the mid 30’s, and served with the 41^st Infantry Division in WWII in New Guinea,  1^st Sgt with the HQ Company. When he was demobilized in 1944 he worked for Chase Gardens again until the steamy environment of the greenhouses reactivated the malaria he had contacted in the jungle warfare.  He then worked for Georgia Pacific in the plywood mill.  When I was 21 and going into the Navy he sold the house in Eugene and bought a 98 acre spread near Goshen where he raised cattle.

Freeman was born within a year of Everett and the two were inseparable for most of their lives.  Everett married Irene Opie (?) and they had three children.  The two oldest, Skip and Patty were my favorite Squires cousins.  Irene was very active in the Springfield parks department, responsible for the WillamaLane swimming pool and activity center.  She then worked at the UofO, history dept office.

Lela was part of the group of children led by Aldyce who spent their summer days in North Dakota keeping track of the small herd of mild cows, riding horses and playing baseball.  After high school she followed Aldyce to San Francisco, where she eventually met Ralph Stelzreid, a merchant seaman.  They married and bought a four story apartment house on Hays Street near Golden Gate Park and had three children, Jack, Judy, and a third son Rick, born late,  about my sisters age.  Jack died in his twenties.

Fay married Jack Williams.  They had three children, Danny, Diane, Jeanie and Rita.

Danny died quite young.

Bruce married, moved to Baker, Oregon, where he had a farm, worked for the post office, and had three children.  The oldest was Peggy, about my age.

Lorraine was last born.  She was a babe in arms during the car trip to Colfax.  She married a log truck driver named Prociw who died in a terrible accident loading his log truck a few years later, leaving her with two boys, Dennis and Billy and a girl, Nancy.  She never remarried.  She was the last to die, in 2013. 

They liked to drink and dance and have fun, and they all lived well into active old age.  Vera was in a bowling league in her nineties.  They were a tough old bunch.