12-8-11Yesterday Sally and I hiked around Lake Timothy. The trail that circumnavigates the lake is 13 miles total but it wanders away from the lake often. In September when I’d been out fishing by myself on the lake shore I’d welcomed the mile or two I tromped outside sight of the lake, away from the hot rocks and reflecting water. My right arm was already a deep red and hummed with warmth even in the shade of the forest. But, on December 7th it is a little less of a Godsend. The evergreen canopy shades the trail, leaving a few inches, sometimes over a foot of snow that has melted just enough to form an ice crust that you punch through with only the mildest resistance. 13 miles seemed manageable when we arrived at 11am with the sun not yet overhead. As we slipped and crunched our way down the trail the idea of walking 3 miles per hour seemed more and more grandeur. I thought of the two brand new pairs of snowshoes sitting on a shelf in my garage, still in their plastic. I thought of how light and portable they were and wondered why I’d put a pair of binoculars in my backpack instead of throwing those snowshoes in the trunk. Incidentally, when I saw my first Bald Eagle since I’d moved to Oregon it was a tiny speck in the top of a Doug Fir. I forgot about my binoculars and squinted and shielded my eyes for a better look. But, back to the beginning of the hike. As soon as we saw the sign for a detour to a Meditation Area we pulled out the small bottle of Jamison and wandered to the water’s edge, never reaching the designated meditation spot but impatiently creating our own on a sawed-off stump resting on craggy and dried out roots a few feet from the lapping lakeshore. I couldn’t imagine what other area on the lake would be more well-suited for abandoning yourself for a few seconds or a few hours to some greater good. I didn’t know how to meditate but I knew how to let the winter sun warm my face and let the whiskey warm my gut. The dogs polar bear plunged, Sally’s Boston Terrier, Murphy, out-swimming my Charlie. He ripped sticks from Charlie’s mouth the few times Charlie would beat him to a root we’d thrown a dozen feet from shore. Charlie cried, as he always done, when the pursuit of a hunk of wood leads him from wading to swimming depth. He’s always been a wader, not a swimmer. And watching him bound along the shore and take big bites of lake water made me love every flea-ridden inch of that old hairy dog. Sitka slapped my legs with a root she’d ripped out of the rocks, not wanting to hand it over but preferring a game of tug of war that would have ripped the skin off my palms. And Suzy just darted from woods to shore, a solar-powered dog charging her mammoth battery bank.
We eventually mosied onward, but chose to follow the shoreline rather than the ice snow trail in the woods. Layers came off as we walked in the sun and the daylight felt endless at high noon. Any parts of the trail that were sheltered from the sun became crunching and stomping. We were perplexed how a firm layer of rock and sand would collapse under our sneakers (yep, sneakers), revealed a few inches of ice that held up the frozen shore. We tried snow (punched through), tried the rocky lake side (punched through or slipped on frozen rock) and tried sandy beach (punched through to a muddy underbelly). Shoes became muddy clod-hoppers and the dogs frolicked in filthy exuberance (except Murph who whimpered and tiptoed his way through the landscape). Eventually we found ourselves pacing down a spidery northern finger of the lake. Five months ago we would have dropped the backpacks and dove off the sandy bank into dark green water, letting the last 9 miles of the hike dry our clothes. But, this time of the year it was just jokes (I think, Sally’s from Minnesota so maybe she was serious) about polar bear plunges. The finger was endless. Eventually a man in reflective orange vest emerged from the woods, watching us intently. I whistled for the dogs, excepting to hear a shotgun blast, until I saw his tripod. A surveyor from Portland General Electric, deep in the woods midweek. Neat job. At least as long as December offered up sun instead of snow or rain. We wandered back onto the trail, regretting it almost instantly as the snow deepened and thoughts of homemade snowshoes entered our minds. The trail led us away from the lake, and knowing we were lengthening the distance of our hike, we stayed keenly focused on the glimmer of blue that would lead us back to the lake and sun. The dogs kept frolicking, except Suzy, who hated her pointy claws punching through the snow. She hurky jerked down the trail, seeming to think that moving quickly would end the experience sooner. If she hadn’t kept running back to us she may have been right in that assumption.
Eventually we found our way to whatever the lake equivalent is tidelands is. Stumps rose out of the snow and flocks of birds scattered into the blue. We found a snowy log to cross a stream, only realizing a few hundred feet further that we needed to cross again to undo that mistake and to keep the lake on our right as one must do when completing a circle. That fording didn’t go quite as dryly. We slapped down frozen, rotten logs to tightrope across. The Jamison ensuring that our feet missed the mark and sunk our sneakers into the mountain stream. Sloshing down the lake, we forgave our frozen feet as the sun melted closer to the treeline. The shoreline turned from frozen sand to boulders, more stable but required a bit more focus to traverse. And the sun ticked as it eased closer and closer to the trees. Looking across the lake, waves and blue yawned between us and the gap on the far shore where Sally’s car sat. I glanced at my watch and two hours of sunlight didn’t seem sufficient to reach vehicular warmth by sunset. But by now we were over halfway and the only option was onward. Scrambling to the treeline, a shrill and proud chirping overhead opened my heart to this place. I had not seen a Bald Eagle in Oregon even though I’ve lived here for fifteen months now. We couldn’t see it yet but then a small black speck deep in the sky gave away it’s flight. Then another, maybe it’s mate, dipped low by the trees, briefly close before it caught a thermal and soared upward. Now we weaved through the scraggly trees still living on the bank above the beach. Passing fire rings and wooden camp benches we switched from shore to bank as we paralleled the far side of the lake where we’d arrived.
Finally we caught the main trail and followed yet another finger to a wooden bridge to cross what we hoped would be one of the last inlets that lengthened our trip as we were forced to follow a winding shore rather than any sort of efficient linear path that may spare us a moonlit hike. That’s when we realized Charlie was missing. We stopped and waited. Then started whistling. Then hollering. Then searching. Sally went off-trail as I walked back the way we came. Charlie is not the most savvy dog out there and has been found in the bottom of a well after one of his adventures. He’s Timmy, not Lassie. With less than an hour of daylight and miles left before us, anger and worry started creeping in as Charlie maintained his absence. As I imagined life without that furry bear of a numbskull dog he came bounding down the trail, obviously deep behind us in pursuit of whatever joy he’d seen off-trail. His happiness turned to concern as he saw the look on my face and he slowed to a plod, tail down. I told him he was an asshole an clipped his leash onto his collar, punishing myself as much as him as I hooked up my ball and chain for the rest of the walk. With a sense of purpose to beat the tick of the sun we kept on, following the trail, crossing the bridge, and then beating our way back off-trail to the lakeshore. This last stretch was the most silent. Hats were donned and layering resumed. The grey and violet of dusk settled around us like a shawl. Except a shawl that had been left in the freezer instead of the closet. Eventually Murphy ended up in Sally’s backpack. He put up zero fight as she lowered him into the bag, simply shivering as he was zipped into the pack. He never attempted escape for the remaining miles. Looking back, Mount Hood surprised us, rising up beyond the lake as proud as those eagles, content in the fading light. The lights of a ski slope twinkled on it’s northern slope. It grew larger and larger as we walked southward. The moon rose out of the east, offering a gentle warning in lieu of the departed sun. Twilight allowed visibility that crept away, but never fully left us as our eyes adjusted and the moon twinkled off the snow-bitten slopes of the lake. We tripped more and talked less. I felt to blame for the lack of planning on how long it takes to walk 13 miles when it’s mostly in snow and over rock, even if it is pancake flat. But, an hour into dark we stumbled onto pavement and a quarter mile from Sally’s car. Murphy was released from his pack, Charlie kept on his leash and chatter resumed. Hamstrings tight as bent saplings we eased into the car, eager for heated seats and no more steps. The conversation was slow and easy as wine on the forty five minute drive back to town. The icy road proved no challenge for Sally’s Midwestern driving skills. And it was with much anticipation that we parked in front of Fearless Brewing, eager to make good on talks of double bacon cheeseburgers and multiple beers. The food was subpar and the service cool, as it usually is there, in spite of the vacant tables. But, we wolfed down a basket of fries and our overcooked burgers without complaint. The beer was cheap and delicious, even the winter ale that I’d usually avoid but felt compelled to order because “warmth” was in the description.
We parted ways in the parking lot of Estacada’s only grocery store. I had to lift Charlie into the Subaru and realized he’ll feel worse than me in the morning, taking into account his dog years. I got home to the gremlin cats and a cold house but the heat was soon blowing and the dogs, bellies full, curled into their beds. I thought of you last night as I do most nights (and days). I watched Moonshiners for the first time and most of The Jerk for the third or fourth. Eyes and heart heavy I crawled into bed, Lily soon digging under the covers and nestling into the crook of my arm as she does almost every night. I lay there in that empty tideland between sleep and wakefulness. I realized I’d forgotten to write to you today, as I’ve done every day since we last spoke. So, I thought of you instead. I thought to you that I love you. It occurred to me that even though I think that many times every day, I haven’t heard it spoken for three weeks. It’s probably over between you and I. That thought settled deep into my chest as sleep closed in. Your pictures still surround me in this house. They rest on every surface. The cards you gave me hang in their place. Your childhood memories stay scattered across the fridge. Your clothes still hang in the closet and your shoes are mixed with mine at the door. But, things don’t make people and I figure someday soon even those things won’t be here to keep me wishing things had ended differently. I wrote to you this morning to make up for yesterday and added it to the folder of love letters that you will probably never read. But, that’s the point I suppose. This isn’t for you. It’s more me. This journey is not planned. It’s off-trail and the footing is poor. But, when you travel in a circle your only option to keep walking to where you began.
