I was an indoor kid, a city kid, and I remained so into my adulthood. I didn’t even think about the outdoors. In the first six years I lived in Portland, Oregon, the most outdoorsy thing I ever did was drive up to the famous Multnomah Falls. Once. I struggled with PTSD, depression, self-hate and self-medicating. Being wasted all of the time was a huge PAUSE button on my life and as the years ticked on, I grew more confused about my place in the world; who I was, where I belonged, what I wanted.
Five-and-a-half years ago, I met my partner and one of our first dates was a hike. I didn’t know “how” to hike or what to wear (photo on the right!). I was self-conscious of my heavy breathing and sweating, but when we reached the top of the hill, I felt something bloom, a reckoning. Shortly after, hiking became the thing I did instead of filling the void with substance abuse and distractions. When I hiked, I felt connection. Connection to my body, earth, nature, my truth. It became a symbol for all I needed in my life: one-step-at-a-time thinking, forward progression as a metaphor, learning from the pain and discomfort and how to push through it productively.
The trail couldn’t tell me what to do with my life, but it’s lessons led me to connecting and building community with other unlikely outdoorspeople. In turn, leading to new, exciting opportunities. It feels like a future. It feels like being found. Where might the trail lead you?
The bedroom is way too dark for 8:30am. Rain. I get up begrudgingly, my body a pin cushion of unexplainable pain. I hear the two lambs crying nearby and limp to a window to see what the fuss is. The dogs are chasing them around the front yard, all parties confused as to why they aren’t with the herd.
I hate to admit it and I don’t want to give it power, but I already know today will be a bad day. I’m having fun on the farm with Erin and the animals and the chaos, I could easily stay here another night, but I’m hoping a change of scenery will work some magic on the funk in my bones and brains. I have too much on my mind and it’s nothing that can’t wait for our return to Portland, but I just can’t turn it off. Also, I’m going to CRATER LAKE. Can that just be enough?
I get up to make coffee and the lambs’ vibrato “mehhh” is louder than ever. I open the front door and find this:
Oh, hey guys. They also wanna know what’s up.Brie’s up now and we quickly pack our stuff. She makes us breakfast. We’re ready to go, but we hang out with Erin for a bit more. It pours on and off for just minutes at a time. Brie and I wordlessly exchange concern for the day, neither one of us wanting to admit how foreboding this manic weather feels. We say our goodbyes. I don’t feel ready to leave Southern Oregon. I’ve barely scratched the surface.
I exclaim over every view as if I haven’t been looking at these views for the last few days. Brie says something like, “when you look at a field, you’re never just looking at a field.” It reminds me of the Rumi poem I always return to, There is a Field:
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase “each other”
doesn’t make any sense.
Our first stop is the historic Jacksonville Cemetery, only about twenty miles from Williams and a few miles from Medford. Jacksonville is a cute little olde town. You know, art galleries, overpriced everything, but adorable. We find a coffee shop and attempt to caffeinate the gray blahs away. Why are all of our trips like this?!?!?! (Rhetorical: Oregon.)
Love that wrought iron.
Not scary at all. Nature is femme What if this was all that was left of you?It feels good to walk around for awhile even in the rain. I’m wearing all of the warm layers I brought which makes me worry about tonight, especially since we’ll be even higher up at Diamond Lake. I pee behind a giant marble grave of some very clearly rich people in the Christian section of the cemetery and feel like maybe I’m being a sacrilegious shit head, but I can’t wait any longer.
Brie and I get back in the car and begin the drive to Medford, where we’ll soon be en route to Crater Lake. We talk about the very real possibility of being fogged out at Crater Lake and agree it’s worth trying even if it doesn’t work out. We might head back to Portland after, which sucks because we have all of this time.
Oh, and obviously we stopped at the In-N-Out Burger. The only one in Oregon.
There were too many people inside, so we ate in the car. It was SO GOOD.The drive is gorgeous, especially the parts along the Rogue River. Before our last turn-off, we realize Google Maps has lead us astray and we won’t be able to take 138 to Diamond Lake because of weather. Huh. We have no reception and our maps indicate a clear alternate route, but we decide we will definitely be heading back home after this. I don’t want to, but I also don’t want to camp in the rain and possible snow.
Yeah, camping sounds awesome right now…We pay the $15 to get into Crater Lake National Park, the only national park in Oregon, and being that we are officially driving in snow and can’t see even two hundred yards in front of us, we know we aren’t gonna see the damn lake. I’m pretending I don’t care, it’s beautiful! We pull up at the first big viewpoint, the only one open at the moment, and…
Behind Brie, that’s Crater Lake. Really.
This is a really weird thing I’m not sure I want to admit, which makes me feel like I have to: I’ve been here before. At least once. I think maybe even twice, I just can’t remember. One of those times was maybe in the last fourteen years since I’ve lived in Oregon and I still can’t remember. My PTSD/too-much-partying brain is that bad. SUCKS. So, this is potentially my third time and still, I’m going to need to come back again to actually see it, but at least I’ll actually remember this time?
We’re in the park for less than an hour. It’s going to be a long day of driving. I’m at that point in my depression where I’m so annoyed by my own feelings and needs. My adventurous spirit has been lost for too long. I think it got mixed up somewhere with my medical bills and chronic pain. I try to be nice to myself. I try to believe this is temporary because it very likely is, right? I don’t want to go back to Portland, which has become more of a symbol than a place: real life and all of it’s harshness, my unsatisfying and underpaying job that doesn’t appreciate me, no cats, no money, fear and imposter syndrome about the GOOD things happening. I feel ashamed of how my negative headspace shrouds the very real, lovely things in my life. I have always felt, even as a child, as if I exist in two worlds. I’m losing my sparkle, myself.
The other day, I was doing one of my side hustles, some landscaping at work. As I was taking a picture of this giant lupine I grew, a man walked by, reeking of alcohol, and snapped the flower’s stalk. His face was a mix of laughter and something like confusion. I was enraged. It felt so personal and shocking. As I tried to explain to my coworkers what happened, all of them sympathetic, it dawned on me just how not a problem this was. Not for me, anyway. There is so much shitty shit happening in the world. This was not one of those things. Yes, the lupine and the planting and the growing and the metaphors gave me real joy, but I could feel the pain and recklessness radiate off of this guy. That petty joy might actually have given him some relief or maybe even his own “WTF am I doing?” moment. I know that feeling of impulsively taking a small joy from someone to dull an edge, like slowing my car to ten below when someone tailgates me, or ignoring a customer who is impatiently interrupting my transaction with another customer. It’s all so fucking petty and speaks only to our pain and feelings of powerlessness.
The ride home is long and tedious. My back is killing me. Brie and I exhaust the sweeter details of the weekend before mutually running out of ways to be positive. We listen to NPR and dread the world, but we get a sunset.
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We wake up in the surprise king-size bed. It’s already 9am. Definitely, not farm life time. Erin has probably been up for more than three hours. I’m well-rested, my back only hurts a little from the unfamiliar bed, but I would’ve been far less comfortable had I been sleeping on my sleeping pad in my current physical state. Honestly, I was nervous about that. Should I thank the Universe for giving me a bed? Maybe, but I really really really love camping. I put my camping dress on, make us coffee in the surprise full kitchen and then Brie and I head out to find Erin. Continue reading “Day Two: Williams and Wolf Creek”→
Google map: don’t bother. From the Hood River Bridge, head west for 1.5 miles then make a right on SR 141. After 6 miles, just past Wet Planet, turn right onto Oak Ridge Rd. for 0.8-mile. Turn Right on Rattlesnake Rd and set your odometer. At the nine mile mark (most of this is unpaved, but fine for 2-wheel drive in drier weather), stay right and soon you’ll see the R1800 junction just after a tree with a “6” on it. Ignore any other trees with “6” on them, just pay attention to the mileage (I saw at least one other “6” tree). Turn right for another 0.8 until it dead ends.
Drive time from Portland: 1h45m
Permit: n/a
Intensity: Easy (Beginner Level: Doable, but there is a creek crossing). 0.5 mile, little to no elevation gain
Open: mid April through July? Depends on the rain, I imagine it completely dries up in hotter months.
Tagg Magazine is a magazine for “everything lesbian, queer and under the rainbow,” and they graciously interviewed me for a piece about @UnlikelyHikers. This came out weeks ago, but my head has been too up my butt to share it. I was in a deep grief brain fog when they interviewed me, but they skillfully made me sound good. Thanks, Tagg Magazine!
The pouring rain hadn’t let up for even a moment from the time we all woke up, to meeting up at Travis’s, to pulling up to the Kurt’s Connection trailhead on Mt. Hood. We were doing this despite the rain’s protests. There was only the faintest vibe of, hey, maybe we should try this again another day? but the trail was only three miles long and no one wanted to be that person. I was vaguely comforted by the fact there was one other person there who hadn’t snowshoed before, but I knew I’d be the slowest person on account of generally being slower and I was also recovering from tearing a meniscus in my left knee two-and-a-half months prior.
It technically wasn’t my first time. My girlfriend, Brie, and I did it once for our second anniversary. We rented snowshoes and had no clue what we were doing, but the day would end with whiskey and a hot tub in a fancy cabin, so who cared? We accidentally picked a “difficult” trail and it was awful. We fell over and over and it was hilarious until it wasn’t anymore. We were beat up by the end, but we actually completed the trail. It didn’t ruin snowshoeing for me, but it took me another three years to give it this second shot. I thought it could only be a breeze after that first experience. Continue reading “Fat Woman Falling”→
