In the last several months Iâ€ve been trying to spend as much time as feasible out having adventures. Given the limitations on my resources – both practical and psychic – Iâ€ve sought out what I think of as single serving vacations. Never longer than a weekend, and sometimes just an overnight, these little mini-break holidays go a long way toward helping me feel like I am not withering away in my convalescence and wasting my life in bed.

Both Pinterest and Instagram have been remarkably robust sources of inspiration for these trips, and several weeks ago, looking at the PNWonderland feed I saw a photo of Colchuck Lake and was completely smitten. Research implied the hike was roughly 4 miles and and a 4 hour drive away to encounter what appeared to be a breathtaking alpine lake ringed by dramatic rocky peaks. I knew I could toss the ol†futon in the back of Quincy and make a pretty great job of the trek and set it as #1 on my list of must see spots.

After weeks of contemplation – and delays due mostly to illness – I finally had the wherewithal to undertake the journey. I re-read the trail guide and was gratified it seemed to strike all the criteria I prefer; stunning vistas (the review described arriving at the lake as a “religious experience”) a decent though not outrageous out and back distance, and enough elevation gain to scare off most casual hikers. I noted Google considered the trip a 5.5 hr drive, but given my experience was generally that I could reliably expect to shave an hour off any estimate, I felt sure Iâ€d arrive much more quickly.

In an effort to do so and just outside of Hood River, I got pulled over and issued a citation for speeding. I deserved it. I wasnâ€t paying attention and made absolutely no effort to defend my actions. The officer was polite; the fine substantial. Boo.

Stonehenge at Maryhill

Taking his admonition to slow down to heart, I made small detours in the interest of scenery a few times and tried to enjoy the drive through Eastern Washington as much as something like that can be enjoyed. There are – interspersed among long stretches of folded brown rolling landscape – occasionally sights of great loveliness, and I made an effort to savor them in the fading daylight.

That being the case, it took every bit as long to get to Leavenworth as Google had implied. After 5+ hours in the car, I was delighted to roll into the eastern end of town to encounter the comforting fluorescent glow of the Safeway. Arming myself with a few additional supplies and some deli General Tsaoâ€s, I prepared to complete the last leg of the trip in the fading twilight. Ascending the 4 miles of rutted gravel road in low light was an adventure all its own.

I hadnâ€t bothered to secure a campsite, as I was intending to a) Sleep in the back of the car and b) Rise at the crack of dawn to start my hike. This worked perfectly well as I simply tucked Quincy into a parking spot in the corner of the lot at the trailhead popped in my headphones to block the noise of the other folks who had done just exactly the same thing and went to sleep.

Long about 5:15 a.m. my eyes popped open and I started to sort through my gear to prepare for ascent. Having done some further reading on other websites, I had amended my expectation that this trail would be quiet. It was variously described as “busy” and “extremely popular.” Knowing that to be true, and paired with my inability to sleep past the first faint light in the sky, I thought taking advantage of an early start was my best bet. I stuffed my swimsuit, a snack, a bottle of water, and a jacket into my daypack and set out within the hour.

Stuart Lake Trail: Gateway to The Enchantments

I took off at a good clip and made decent time to the river crossing at 1.5 miles. The trail was well-maintained and had a pleasant, variable character. Mostly packed dirt with rocks and roots to avoid, the most notable feature in the early morning was the remarkable din of the creek running alongside. It was a chattering and lovely sound that filled in air in the otherwise silent morning.

Once across the first bridge, the personality of the trail changed notably. Almost immediately, I began to see and feel the climb ahead of me. I realized pretty quickly my knees were going to be in for a rough time on the way down. This hike is rather dramatically lopsided; it is very much all up one direction and all down the other. What had been a rolling walk turned into a stair-step tramp of some challenge.

Even at that early hour, it wasnâ€t more than 45 minutes or so before a group came in around me. Though I am determined and unrelenting – much like when I run – distance is achieved at a much slower than average pace. With hiking in particular I have to be especially careful; given my lack of depth perception and questionable balance, I tend to trip, slip, and fall with shocking regularity. Moving slowly and choosing my route with great care helps mitigate this outcome, but never eliminates it entirely. I fell no less than 6-7 times over the course of this hike. I have learned how to do so in such a way that I wasnâ€t hurt at all, but it injures my dignity to have other people witness my clumsy and lumbering progress. As such, encountering a crowd of skilled and fast-moving hikers is kind of a bummer for me.

Another footbridge across the creek left me momentarily stumped. Heretofore, the trail had been clear and easy to follow. At the terminus of the railing, there was nothing but a huge tumbled rockfall and no discernible route away from the landing. It took me a full and thorough investigation of the shore to realize the trial snaked around behind a large rock and away to the right. Once again, my lack of depth perception left me at a disadvantage; I could not readily see the distance between the rocks when confronting them from directly in front. This continued to be a challenge for the rest of the hike, as it increasingly bent its way back and forth along a cliffside littered with boulders and stones.

Find The Trail; Colchuck Lake Edition!

It was also at this point that the stripe of the ramble changed again. Most of the elevation gain was realized in the next 1.5 miles. At times, it felt like a climb rather than a hike. More than once, I was gripping rocks and hoisting myself over and up to regain the trail. I was increasingly dubious that anyone would reasonably consider this “moderate.”

Finally after 2.5 hours of hard haul I reached Colchuck and its deep teal waters.

Colchuck Lake

While the lake was undeniably lovely, and the setting dramatic, it was actually rather difficult to get down anywhere near the shore to take in the spectacle in any encompassing way. Calling this view a religious experience seemed a bit hyperbolic; similar only in being won by dint of a grueling and demoralizing progress. The photos I was hoping to get were all constrained by the angle I could manage given my vantage. More, after weeks of all but unrelenting heat it was not only cool, but raining. The weight of my useless swimsuit hung heavy in my daypack, indeed.

Descent!

The descent was its own brand of brutal. My knees were protesting the unrelenting downward progress after the first half mile and had four more to tolerate besides. By that time of the morning, the traffic on the trail was nothing less than hectic. Progress, already slowed by aforementioned caution, was further hampered by the need to frequently step aside for uphill traffic.

All things considered, though it was beautiful, I didnâ€t consider the effort-to-reward ratio on this particular trip to have worked out that well. Given a companion, a longer timeline, and a clearer expectation of what was coming, I think it would warrant a return trip. The area boasts several other lakes in a looped trail system called The Enchantments. It seems like itâ€d be a worthy use of a weekend to see more of the landscape thereabouts. On the whole, Iâ€ve had pretty good success with the Instagram-Pinterest Adventurelark Trip Planning Method. Call this one a qualified win.

Spine

Twilight: the good kind

Drew and I decided to take a bike ride this weekend. I’ve been running a good deal, and feeling like it’s time to start rounding out my exertions with other ways to break a sweat. Swimming and lifting are great in their place, but I have a nice bike that hasn’t seen the light of day enough lately. So.

Given the drastic variation in our skill and fitness levels  we usually stick to either the Springwater Trail or the Banks-Vernonia Trail  when we ride. These are both paved trails with predictable conditions and a mild grade as a nod to my considerable inexperience with any other kind, but I was feeling adventurous and thought a change of scene might be nice.

A quick search for a Rails-To-Trails came up with a few good options, but most of them were either disappointingly short or inconveniently far away. Finally, when I expanded my search to include Washington as well as Oregon the Klickitat River Trail popped up in my results. The photos looked lovely and the mention of pavement and packed dirt surface seemed promising. A drive out to Hood River being a pretty regular occurrence for me, I didn’t see the distance as prohibitive.

If I had read the trail info on the website for the trail itself – rather than on the rails-to-trails results – I might have realized the “pavement” and “packed dirt surface” were in limited supply and that a road bike wasn’t sufficient to the journey. Alas, I did not settle on this idea via that route and didn’t give a second thought to what kind of conditions we might encounter.

The Lyle Trailhead boasts a recently paved parking lot with modern bathroom facilities. Even at 10 a.m. the lot was completely empty. What traffic we did see was all over in the nearby gravel lot that served the riverbank and the kiteboarders headed out on the Columbia. It seemed strange to me that such an accessible and seemingly well-maintained bike path would be deserted on a weekend morning, but I was more inclined simply to be grateful than to consider too deeply why that might be the case.

We mounted up and started riding. Within about 300 yards, the asphalt gave way to gravel, never to return. Over the course of the ride, it would devolve into an array of variably challenging alternatives, but it was never again as favorable as those first few hundred feet.  My Trek is a hybrid with tires of a fairly reasonable width, Drew however has a road cycle suited for long touring rides; he’s gone to Ragbrai several times with this rig and it is patently meant to be used on pavement. It was clear within a mile or so that we were in for more of a challenge than we had bargained for. We both felt like the drive and the effort made it worthwhile to simply forge ahead and make the best of things, nevertheless.

Just Past The Pavement

As far as it went, you could hardly ask for a nicer setting. The river runs close alongside the trail for nearly the entire length of the section we rode. There were high rolling hills, trees, and all manner of wildlife. We saw several bald eagles, a heron, and a variety of other birds. The day was overcast and warm, but much less brutally hot than the previous several weeks and overall, conditions seemed quite good for a ride. 

Scenic!

Somewhat quickly however, things devolved. Only his considerable athleticism allowed Drew to make anything like reasonable progress. I was in much better shape on my set of wider tires than he was on his super skinny road wheels. Large flinty rocks littered the trail at intervals and no one surface dominated the others to allow one to adapt or predict what might be the most appropriate riding speed. At turns sand, packed dirt, small dense gravel, large rocks, wooden planks, and asphalt all made an appearance. We made good time over anything flat and firm, but all too often that would give way to a particularly rocky or bumpy section which would require either a considerable slowdown or to dismount entirely. Fairly early on, I lost my bike out from under me once trying to skirt one of the several gates we encountered. Though I landed on my feet and was entirely unhurt, I remarked that though I have to get hurt to know I am having a good time, I’d prefer it happen later in the ride.*

Butt As Yet Not Totally Numb

Predictably, given the unsuitability of riding road tires over a surface suited to mountain bikes, one of Drew’s tubes gave way. Repaired with relative ease, we carried on. Our original plan had been to at least attempt the entire length of the 31 mile trail. It became apparent within the first 4 miles or so there was simply no way we were equipped for such a task. His bike and my lack of saddle time were a considerable impediment to the conditions. 

Bridge To Nowhere

I began to look with fondness over at the highway that paralleled the trail on the opposite river bank. Somewhere around mile 7, Drew suggested we ride back down over the road rather than navigating the whole beast in reverse. My initial concern over the lack of a shoulder to ride on gave way to exhaustion and thirst (having left both of the two bottles of water I’d brought back in the car like a moron) and I agreed taking the road back made the most sense.

No Cows Were Spotted In The Making Of This Blog Post

Once on the road, things sped up considerably. My initial concern about riding on the highway was quickly put to rest when I noted that the shoulder was present and even generous for most of the 10 mile length of our ride back. Moreover, traffic was both light and considerate. My only difficulty was with the rolling hills we had managed to avoid on the very flat trail surface. Drew handled them with alacrity and was far enough ahead to be out of sight for a fair portion of the ride, but I was flailing in granny gear more than once. 

Once the trail returned to the side of the river I was riding down it occurred to me that proceeding back over the flat packed surface of the trail might be faster for me than trying to keep pace with Drew over the road. Delighted I wouldn’t have to mount the last long incline I saw climbing in front of me, I turned with more speed than was wise to re-enter the trail. As soon as my tires hit gravel I knew I was about to make good on my earlier suggestion that I get hurt a little closer to the end of the ride.

Owie, I Had Fun!

As is my custom it ended up being the Best Possible Version of the Worst Case Scenario; the bad thing happens, but it’s a lot less bad than it could be. My hands took the brunt of the damage – again, I was technically prepared with gloves, but hadn’t actually bothered to put them on – but I did end up with some road rash on my elbow and a nasty bruise on my right leg. Scrapes notwithstanding, and having known people who came away from bike crashes only by aid of LifeFlight, I was relieved not to have been much more badly hurt. 

So only having ridden roughly 20 of the 62 we’d planned, I was still duly exhausted and ready to reward the effort. Everybody’s Brewing up in White Salmon was beckoning, and the Mediterranean Plate and Little Sister ISL felt like due recompense for my pain and pleasure. 

Hey Hey Hey, Look At Little Sister

*Naturally this came back to haunt me. Like asking the universe to smite me. As if it needed the encouragement.

I Want To Go To Here

You’d think, with how much less energetic I’ve been feeling overall, this wanderlust would take a hiatus.

Apparently, you’d be wrong.

Several months ago, thanks to the @OregonExplored Instagram feed, I discovered Chush Falls. Though I’ve spent a fair amount of time in Bend and Sunriver I hadn’t done much exploring around the area outside of town. The shot of the waterfall was feral and gorgeous and I very much wanted to see it. I had planned to swing through Bend at the end of a road trip in January, but since I wasn’t able to make it then, I thought this would be the prefect opportunity to check it out.

The wilderness area where the falls are situated suffered a somewhat serious burn back in 2012 with the Pole Creek fire. Much of the hike from the forest road was still a landscape twisted, black, and barren. The path was soft, wide, and would have lent itself perfectly to a trail run if I hadn’t been feeling under the weather. Everywhere was evidence of the fire.

The hike itself was a bit of a ramble. Mostly flat, with a few short steep sections. The trail was well-marked and though counter-intuitive at times, it’s carefully maintained and easy to follow. There are a few places to ford small streams, but it’s a hop-and-a-skip in almost every case. The trek is redolent of baked mesquite and warm earth. 

Up the last bit of elevation gain you abruptly confront a sign declaring End of Trail. From this vantage, you can see the top of the falls though a screen of trees, but the view is largely obstructed. Off to the right is a vague, but relatively easy scramble down to the creek and a much more direct view of the falls.

The water pouring over the rocks was absolutely clear. The falls were roaring and just as wild as promised. The spray was so intense getting closer would have left me soaked and without a clear photo, but I’m sure in hot weather it is tremendously refreshing. The effort to reward ratio on this was well in its favor.

I accepted a new job back in January. Having relinquished my pseudo-gypsy lifestyle in favor of a new car and health insurance has generally been a positive change, but the difference between 24 and 40 hours a week is substantial.

I always knew I was a bit spoiled; even when I was working 3 jobs at a time, it was still the case that I’d work one day, and then have a day off. I’d work another day, and then have one off. I’d work one more day, and then I’d have two off. It was the life. True, I was broke all the time, but good god the glorious time to accomplish things. 

Suffice it to say, now that I go to work every weekday, things have changed. I like my new job, I am just feeling the no-longer-abundant proportion of free time somewhat keenly. Apart from the lack of time to get chores, tasks, and projects done there is also a considerable dearth of time to just do not a goddamned thing which I could not have predicted I would miss so much. Oh, were one to know the glorious indulgence of being bored when one was it. 

Perhaps it makes what I am about to assert seem rather obvious; now that I have so much less free time, the bit I do is much more precious to me. I think about how to spend it more carefully, and do my level best to fill it – at least with a little not a goddamned thing – but also with people and activities I love best.

Which is why I’m up for a jam-packed weekend of doing things I adore. Out to White Salmon for a Naramore Acres moviefest and Blerch* Dash. Back to Portland for niece Billie’s birthday party. Finally a day devoted to laying around until the last possible moment before getting up and doing all my chores in a frenzied whirlwind of vacuuming, laundry, and mattress flipping.

I can hardly wait.

*All due acknowledgement to The Oatmeal here. Les and I were beside ourselves with excitement when the Beat the Blerch was announced last year. We didn’t move fast enough and registration filled with lightning speed. There’s another race scheduled for mid-September this year, and we are avowedly in training, till then. We’re gonna have to get some cake.

I am going to see my mother for the first time in 2.5 years. I am looking forward to the uncluttered time in the car driving across the plains to see her. Wanted to take the trip before the weather changed and before the start of fall term. Plus, this way she can meet her granddog.

It isn’t lack of ambition that keeps me from completing exotic routes more often, so much as it is the multitude of considerations and constraints my chosen cardiovascular hobby imposes.

Asthma

I am presented with several limitations running-wise, this is certainly the most pressing. It is aggravated with even moderate increases in heart rate and the medication that best controls this is both prohibitively expensive and causes me to lose my voice. I have learned to take steps which mitigate the worst of my day-to-day symptoms, but running puts a whole different kind of strain on my lungs.

Because of the way my lungs respond to exertion, running fast is more or less out of the question. It wasn’t until I trained myself to move in a slow steady lope that I was able to attain distances in excess of about a mile. Keeping my speed consistent and controlled is the only way I can manage a run of any meaningful length. This is complicated by the fact that even slight elevation changes are also problematic and will set off an attack. As such, any route with elevation change can only include an incline which is either very short or I must plan to take it at a walk.

Joint Problems

I’ve always been hyperflexible. Being bendy is fun for various reasons but also leaves me subject to the woes that accompany this trait (have you heard of anyone DISLOCATING THEIR PELVIS? Well, now you have). I have achy knees, wonky hips, and of late, a screwed up shoulder. These clicks and pains are mitigated, though not solved, by various voodoo taping techniques. But regardless of how much tape of any kind and color combination I may try, there are a finite number of times I can strike the earth with all my body weight and forward momentum before I can feel my joints grinding together to punish me for my hubris.

I have determined through experimentation and experience that this finite number is about 16,000. Once I exceed that, I am in pain; varying degrees – to be sure – depending on how long it has been since my last run, how much stretching I have done, and whether or not I was wise enough to take some ibuprofen beforehand, but pain that will limit my capacity to carry on regardless.

Delicate Flowerhood

I am very heat intolerant and become both nauseous and light-headed if I exert myself in temperatures exceeding about 70 degrees. This means running during the day in nice weather can present a blurk-inducing conflict of interest between enjoying pleasant outdoor weather and not being able to do so whilst I am seized by the overpowering need to vomit.

Thus, my ideal running conditions are:

• Speed – Slow to Moderate
• Terrain – Flat and Paved*
• Temperature – between 45°-70°

 

This is not impossible to locate, but becomes incredibly boring after 60-70 repetitions. So, I push myself beyond the ideal, and I am usually glad I did.

I thought the day would stay cooler, and determined to fulfill my bridge run fantasy before fall set in. I had long since considered that starting at the St Johns bridge meant the run would be largely downhill to get to the Sellwood rather than running the opposite. The issue then became transportation. I knew I could park my car at Sellwood and either get a ride or take the bus to St. Johns, but because I am both a masochist and a moron, I instead told myself that riding my bicycle the 13 miles uphill would be a great way to be sure I was warmed up for the run back.

Ahem.

Bridge #1: The St. Johns

This is my favorite bridge in Portland. It is graceful, and lovely, both in setting and form. It also reminds me of Batman. Which is just awesome. At this point, I was feeling pretty good; flushed and warm, stretched out and eager to get running.

Bridge #2: The Freemont

I’ve always been fond of the urban-fantasy-curvyness of this freeway. The pillars on the east bound deck look like dominoes to me, and the arch is iconic and appealing. It is also my favorite stop on the bridge pedal.

Bridge #3: The Broadway

I remember when this bridge was brown. I think it looks handsomer, red. The Albers Mill at the west end of the bridge always captures my attention as I cross, because my paternal grandfather was the child model in the ad, back in the day. He was also featured in Modern Maturity in an article about the Mazamas because he was still climbing mountains in his 70’s. He was an inspiration, despite his weird chagrin over his given name being Marion. He liked to point out if John Wayne wasn’t man enough to carry it off, he sure as hell wasn’t going to try.

Bridge #4: The Steel

I run across this thing 3-4 times a week, and I never like it any better. It looks and feels rickety to me. It has the distinction of being the SECOND oldest lift-span drawbridge in use,  and the only double-deck bridge with independent lifts in the world but I think lift-span bridges are nowhere near as charming as the tippy ones. Also, when the trains roll across it is so freaking loud my head is like to splode.

Bridge #5: The Burnside

This one is tippy. It also has operator towers that look like a castle turret. It is also the bridge I personally use the most getting back and forth across town. It affords me a nice view of the White Stag/Made In Oregon/Portland, Oregon sign and of the west hills in general. I am also most pleased with the way this photo turned out.

Bridge #6: The Morrison

I don’t even really have words. I mean, blurring this photo was a huge improvement over how this bridge actually looks. I guess it’s okay when they shine all the different colored lights on it. And, thank god, they finally laid dowh some pavement. Cause, you know, in a place where it rains once in a while it was apparently impossible to predict that a metal span might become SLICK AS LUKEWARM SNOT whenever it got wet.

Bridge #7: The Hawthorne

This bridge used to be a different color, too, but I don’t remember what it was. Another lift span, it remains more charming to me than the Steel, though I couldn’t give you a sound reason why… perhaps it is because, as Mike pedantically pointed out, it is the OLDEST lift span bridge in operation.  It was about this point in my run that the “running” got a whole lot slower. 

 Bridge #8: The Marquam

Another freeway bridge. Utterly lacking the charm of its northern neighbor. Does offer a lovely view of downtown – basically only enjoyable during its frequently intolerably slow afternoon traffic. This always seems like the bridge that’d collapse first a-la the Bay Bridge when the giant earthquake we’ve all heard about finally smites us.

Bridge #9: The Ross Island

Is the gravel quarry named for the island or vice versa? Either way, it seems a rather uninspired combination of terms. This bridge is so tall it doesn’t need to be tippy OR lifty. The area beneath is has been transformed from a wasteland of post-industrial urban blight to a wasteland of post-industrial mod chic tower housing and overtly horizontally oriented pointy places of unclear provenance. It is much nicer to run past, now. Or, lurchingly hobble past, as the case may be.

Bridge #10: The Sellwood

 For most of my life, I have crossed this bridge with trepidation bordering on terror. Virtually every crossing was accompanied by an elaborate fantasy wherein, as I navigate its rickety heights, it finally succumbs to years of hard use and bad engineering to tumble me screaming headlong into the Willamette and I must use all my wiles to escape my plummeting car. Which I know damn well I wouldn’t and so thus envision my watery demise. I’m real glad they’re fixing it.

But not as glad as I was to see the end of this journey. After 26 human powered miles, I needed a sandwich and a sit down. Oof. 

*Other surfaces are kinder to joints but require greater exertion.

Every so often, Runkeeper sends me a little status update about my efforts. A while back i got a note that said I’d covered 500 miles. I was pretty pleased with myself.

This morning as I was rounding the esplanade, I was marveling that I have been running more or less consistently (illness and injuries notwithstanding) for over 7 months now. A little later, I got an email from Runkeeper saying I had logged my 100th activity. I’m not always super great about follow through, so this was a nice reminder that there are things I can stick to, no matter what.

There are some definite rewards in the 5am run…

It is it. I am sleepy. I hope, earnestly, for a snooze on plane.