My Ridge

by Dave Bronson

It is a nightmare trail. I am rooted in a huge, kaleidoscopic field of wild rhododendrons, which crowd oppressively beneath a dark canopy of Douglas fir and Western red cedar. It's a stupid place, unrelenting, exhausting, boring.

Why, then, am I here once again, not making any progress? THE PAYOFF. That's why. Up there, where the trail finally dead ends, is sensuous ridge of wildflowers with a solo sized campsite that overlooks foothills, valleys, even a metropolis, and which is itself overlooked by glaciers. Unless you are a climber, which I am not, there is nothing to do once you set camp except to drench yourself in the setting. Which is exactly the whole idea.

The pain I presently experience is somewhat self-inflicted as I carry a heavy pack, 53 pounds, and only for an outing of two nights. Other backpackers traveling light may blow on by me, but they are mileage eaters, aiming for an entirely different wilderness experience than I - they are DOING WITHOUT. That's admirable, but not for me - I DO WITH. True, I am experiencing difficulties now. This admittedly cannot be defined as the "leisurely" part of my trip. I was at the trailhead by 7:30 in the morning, allowing plenty of time for long breaks as I bring my load of luxuries (including a 1989 bottle of Lange Pinot Noir carefully rolled up in my Therm-o-Rest) from 3,250 feet in elevation to 6,120 feet in 7.5 miles.

I pass by yet more rhododendrons - or are they passing me by while I hike in place? This is bad. What I need right now is a fantasy - a vivid, mind-bending fantasy so intense as to remove me from my present physical discomfort. It's starting to take shape . . .

A six foot claw tub awaits on a rock terrace, hot water drawn, almond scented bubbles frothing, large cotton towels and robe at the ready as I exit to alpine glow and a snifter of warmed Grand Marnier, and hence to my spacious dome tent where the masseuse is waiting. The tuxedo I wore for cocktail hour, appetizers, and an entree of Beef Bourgogne is compressed back into its 35mm film can, and the tub, ecologically tuned to cooling air, is biodegrading into seed pods of Avalanche Lilies which by morning will scatter to thankful meadows and rock crevices.

Amazing! I reach the first switchback and exit the kaleidoscope. Good work, fantasy! In minutes the trail crests the ridge and opens up. Here nature provides a log seat amongst bear grass and bugs with a view to mountain flanks and to a deep headwater canyon where cottonwood grows as thick and green as broccoli.

This is progress. About halfway to PAY OFF. From here the trail doesn't quite know whether to be in timber or to be alpine, and my mood changes as quickly as the transitions, from dark despair to light hope. Another marker appears. It's a small, marshy pond left of the trail, supposedly a watering hole for cougar. Crazily I hope for an encounter, knowing that if I speak to the kitty nicely, I can take a picture. Never happens.

Further on is a furious and cold little stream, banked highly and in a big hurry to get down the mountain and become a waterfall. I rest here, but never long because my arrival seems always to be timed with a billowing mosquito hatch. Does this sound like fun? Truly, honestly, it is - particularly as the trail opens up for good and contours around steep wildflower fields and occasionally crosses narrow snow chutes just now giving up on winter. The breaks here are as much for photography as for rest. Indian paintbrush, Larkspur, and Lupine are at their prime, posed, glittering with tiny diamonds of dew.

To the west are lines after lines of hazy foothills quilted by clear cuts, punctuated here and there by higher peaks. They appear to have no end, although I know between them, unseen, is a broad valley where millions of people live. Very few of those people are up here today, or ever will be, even though they are a 65-minute drive from the trailhead.

So I admit it. I feel superior. And grateful, too.

Finally, after all this zigzagging, the trail seriously aligns to the mountain. It is dead ahead, framed by a last stand of big timber, exactly in the same perspective as we see it from the city only closer and less serene, lower glaciers scarred, dirty, worn down.

The ridge shoulder ends at an abrupt drop-off and a popular viewpoint - and also a king-sized flat boulder bed. It is impossible to resist, although my destination is only 300 feet up and over the ridge crest. I jettison my pack and climb aboard. Actually, where I am is more a listening post than a viewpoint, so I stretch out and look skyward and wait to hear the glaciers complaining about the summer. Bitch, bitch! They are in a bad mood today, creaking and scuttling out debris from their undersides. I've been here when the debris goes from trickle to a shuffle, collecting more stuff on the way until it turns into a genuine landslide. Lots of continuous action. Here you get a real sense of the mountain's impermanence. It's a yin and yang thing; forces are grinding it down while also uplifting it. Higher is a wisp of volcanic steam. I think of being only a geological tick away from the mountain's awakening.

Suddenly I am sitting up, alert. It isn't noise that brings me about, but lack of it. No glaciers complain, no birds sing, no insects buzz. Everything is taking a snooze.

But now I am worrying. Nary a soul has been sighted since I turned to the ridge trail, but even so an interloper at this very moment might be encamped in my place, on my ridge. I recognize this is public wilderness for all to enjoy, but I do get obsessively protective and selfish when it comes to staking out a home up here, albeit temporary.

I move again and crest the ridge. Wham! The view opens hundreds of miles north, white peaks as far as I can see above low haze. Below a massive snowfield hunkers in. It is gravely wounded, oozing at its base. Warmed rocks are eating at it in wide, circular swaths. The tread narrows above the snowfield, the wildflowers intensify; the scent is piney and earthy and moist. A mild breeze flaps the wide brims of my mountain hat. Smack in front, filling half the sky, is the mountain again, angular and impressive and, from this perspective, pure. Its dirty glacial scars are hidden around the other side. My ridge is running out against a much higher spine, where climbers with ice axes and crampons roam. In a few minutes I will come upon my tiny campsite, tucked in a knot of squat, wind blown pines.

My heart pounds up to my throat from a potent combination of exertion and anticipation. I just know scum campers will be here. They will be sucking beers and firing off rounds of ammunition in a cloud of cigarette smoke, amidst sprawled gear and barking dogs and a Walkman at full blast. It will be ugly. I will refer them to regulations regarding the "grandfathering of this site privately to my interests within the public wilderness domain." I will then inform them they are trespassing and graciously offer to help relocate their camp to a nice ledge 500 feet below.

Ah! None of this subterfuge is necessary. I am alone! It's just the mountain and me and my ridge.

About the Author

Dave Bronson (bop@SpiritOne.com) began backpacking in the 60s in California's High Sierra. Since returning to his roots in Oregon in 1972, he and his wife, Ann,