The Ink spot

Early start

Sat, 19 Jun 2010 23:46:35 -0700

My back starts to ache with the simple thought of what’s coming: 50 pounds of tent and sleeping bag, clothes and stove, camera and book, water and whiskey, and all other make and manner of goods for a three-day backpack on the southern Oregon Coast over Memorial Day weekend. That’s my normal load for this trip, but because it’s just a mile or so in to our prized spot on the beach, it’s never too daunting.

But this year, I have an extra 12 pounds slung across my chest.

Spencer.

Yes, since we made this trip last year, we’ve added some weight to our family, and by the time we hit the beach on an absolutely bluebird Saturday morning in southern Oregon, I’m quite certain my payload’s a tad heavier than it was a year ago.

But no matter. Madeline’s also a year older and able to make the hike all by herself thanks to the countless clam shells and crab claws and other treasures that keep her entranced as we walk. And Spencer just falls asleep to the cadence of my stride and the blue ocean waves, so there’s no worry except for whether or not our regular campsite will be empty. We’ve always been lucky, and this year the Fates are smiling on us again.

Our good friends, Mark and Missy, meet us here later Saturday afternoon, and we commence enjoying this annual escape as we always do: relaxing, exploring, unplugging, refreshing.

Sure, it’s not as relaxing as it was years ago when it was just Amy and me alone on the beach. And when we wake up Monday morning to a soaking sideways rain and a sour brother and sister, it’s easy to question whether this has all been worth it.

But once we’re all packed up and strolling along a route through the woods that we’ve never tried before — and remembering how warm the sun was the day before, how blue and refreshing and calming the ocean, how much fun we all had — there’s nothing to doubt.

A different kind of mountain

Wed, 12 May 2010 22:35:30 -0700

It’s been Mt. Hood all the time around here lately, and for good reason.

But this past weekend, I took a break from Oregon’s tallest mountain and hit a different kind of peak altogether: Ice Mountain at The Enchanted Forest.

The Ice Mountain Bobsleds at The Enchanted Forest. That’s Madeline in the middle.

Anyone who lives in Oregon and has traveled the I-5 corridor just south of Salem has got to be familiar with The Enchanted Forest, at least its location. You can’t miss it: the arty signs, the Old World buildings clinging to the side of a forested hill, the sketchy-looking amusement park rides of the now-defunct Thrillville U.S.A. next door.

To me, it’s always been one of those roadside attractions that I’d planned to someday check out just to see what was really going on in case, I don’t know, there really was something going on. (Like when we pulled off the highway last summer to check out the Natural Bridge along the Rogue River.)

I admit, I wasn’t entirely thrilled to be heading there on a mystery trip for Madeline last Saturday, but I went along with it. Here was my chance to see what really goes on at The Enchanted Forest.

It starts out a little slow on a trail that winds through fairy tales and nursery rhymes full of some creepy but colorful characters.

Then you wind up through an old western town full of shooting galleries and corny vignettes geared toward the younger set. From there, it’s either a stroll down through a medieval village thoroughfare or off to the rides. No surprise which way we went.

Madeline rode every ride over and over — and over. (If you go, pay the extra money for the kid’s wristband. It’s entirely worth it.) She was the kid in the candy store all day long.

By the end of the day, I had to admit that The Enchanted Forest had been just that for Madeline and all the other kids running about. There were a couple rides that were fun for the rest of us, but the place isn’t about the rest of us. It’s geared 100 percent toward wild-eyed little ones who still believe in fairy tales and 15-foot ferris wheels, train rides, bumper cars, and an abominable snow man lurking in a cavern on Ice Mountain.

Postscript
After a six full hours at The Enchanted Forest, I was ready for a little something else. Luckily, Willamette Valley Vineyards — and their tasting room and deck — is right next door.

They call it Mt. Defiance for a reason

Wed, 5 May 2010 12:25:10 -0700

The name itself is enough to conjure up trepidation in just about anyone who’s tread any of the trails in the Columbia River Gorge.

Mt. Defiance.

Ugh.

Six grueling miles and 4,800 feet up from the river to the 4,960-foot summit, and the same stats all the way back down.

I first subjected myself to Defiance’s punishment as an aspiring mountaineer a decade or so ago. The day was a beautiful one, and a big group of us — part of the Ptarmigans basic mountaineering course — pounded our way up the mountain’s switchbacks, up its long ridges, up its high snowy slopes, all the way to the summit. I was bummed to learn, about halfway up, that the top of Mt. Defiance is actually home to an ugly microwave station full of towers and wires and such. But that mattered little once we’d made it.

Not only was it rewarding to have actually survived the hike up, but the view from atop Mt. Defiance is absolutely spectacular. Mt. Hood is so close and so grand you can almost reach out and touch its northern flanks. And that early May day was so sunny and so blue that we all laid around on the rocks of Defiance like lizards and soaked in the rays as if we were on the beach.

Since then, I’ve done Defiance a few other times, always in preparation for the climbing season. Despite its jaw-dropping summit view, the hike, to me, serves no real purpose other than to kick your backside into climbing shape.

Which is why I was back on Defiance on Saturday with my friend, Trin, as I’m gearing up for a climb of Mt. Hood for the Mt Hood book. A glutton for the punishment of Defiance — how else to explain it? — Trin has climbed it well over 40 times in the past 10 years or so. Says he’s attracted to the sheer brutality of it.

I guess so.

Saturday wasn’t exactly a bluebird day on Mt. Defiance, but it wasn’t unbearable either. We had sun breaks and sprinkles, deep snow and clouds. Sweeping winds swayed the trees back and forth. The summit was completely socked in, and ice plunging from the towers shattered like dinner plates. We didn’t stay long.

The entire roundtrip took us about seven-and-a-half hours, and by the end it felt heavenly to finally walk on flat ground again, and then to sit down. Two days later, Defiance was still with me, in my knees and calves particularly, but mostly in a good way. Oliver, too, was exceptionally mellow for the first few days after.

I always thought Mt. Defiance was named for the opposition it puts up against hikers, for the taunts it doles out, or, as Trin says, its sheer brutality. But according to Lewis McArthur’s invaluable Oregon Geographic Names, early settlers named it Mt. Defiance simply because the peak hangs on to its snow later in the season than any other in the Gorge.

But I bet if they’d tried climbing it, they would have come up with the exact same name.