Peaks

I’m a mountain-top kind of girl. Give me a summit. You can have the moist green divot bejeweled with a tumbling creek. I’ll take the top bunk, thank you very much.

Seems I’ve been that way as an adult for a very long time. The Tetons, Big Horn Crags, Seven Devils….these were the rock stars of my twenties. Jarring blocks of granite, that’s what I wanted watching my back. I used to lead trips into the exhausting trials of Heaven’s Gate, opening up the wilderness of the rugged range just east of Hell’s Canyon.

To entice the naïve folks who signed up for my annual “Seven Devils Torture Trip,” I’d stash fifths of Jack Daniels and tins of smoked oysters. On the last climb out, after nearly nineteen miles and a couple of thousand vertical feet, my hiking buddies would be vengeful. I’d have to bribe them: “Just around this bend, just above this crossing, just below that summit."

Then, when they were convinced I was demented or satanic, I’d suggest we take a break. I’d wander in the brush and come back with treats! The last quarter mile was not so tough, with a couple of swigs of Jack and some oysters in the tummy.

Peaks. That’s what I like. My late husband and I had our first “real” date among the Seven Devils’ peaks. An incredible storm swooped down upon us and we huddled in one of our tents, hoping that the lightning zaps would spare us. He told me that this was a good sign: our love had been tested in the crucible of that storm and it held. He was right.

Peaks. That’s what I like. When looking for a spot to camp, I like the summit or, at the very least, a saddle. Surveying what’s out there is important. Nineteenth century landscaping protocol dictated having a fine vista, a spot where one could survey the expanse of her holdings, could monitor the work of her grounds crew, could ruminate on the wild spirituality of Nature Untamed.

We always sought such spots out when rambling in our truck and camper unit. One summit in the Escalante region of southern Utah was particularly impressive: we set up lawn chairs to watch the sunset. Wild turkeys surrounded us at dusk. Elk moistened our windows with their hot breath before dawn. Sunrise was an incredible sacrament, marked with the taste of strong steamy coffee and the deep smiles of gratitude.

Peaks. That’s what I like. My daughter and I just hiked around on Mt Hood. Oh my goodness, what a creature, that mountain! We took the ski lift up, disembarked, and scrambled above the tree line. Clouds sifted through the rocky top of this volcano. Sun tried burning all mist away, but failed. Wind slashed across talus slopes, hardly fazing the tiny tundra blooms of pink, white, yellow. Hiking out to Zig Zag Overlook, we traversed an incredible conifer forest scrambling to hang on, a deep vee canyon littered with the debris of spring run-off, and lush greened meadows, musky and ripe. A trek this high was worth repeating and we agreed to tackle a trail on Mt. Rainier in the coming days.

She and I may not make such a trip, given the soggy forecast in front of us, but we know quite well the joys to be had near the summit. We know of the sacred pleasures offered by peaks.

Prey

I had planned for us to walk for miles along the wooded trail, a former railroad bed, meandering through pine forest, high desert, grassy meadow over this long weekend. My dog Sadie and I were set. Goretex, good sox, sunscreen, cashmere hat, gloves, water, snacks: we were prepared. A pre-trek jaunt was dress rehearsal. Parking spots, “urban” areas (of 20 homes or more), trestles, river access, I pinned them all on my mental map of this unique hiking highway. I was especially excited about the stretch of trail that veered from auto routes into an “uninhabited” stretch of canyon. Sadie and I were set for one long day on the rail to river trail, no matter what the unsettled weather shot our way.

Then I made the mistake of talking to locals. Not just any locals, but seasoned, sensible, well-rounded locals. Folks whose observations I valued. Folks whose declarations were not typically histrionic. Folks who knew this country deeply, after decades and decades of out-in-it residence. One who’d hunted rattlesnakes as a kid and who calmly stayed in his sleeping bag as cougar cubs caroused through camp. These were not lightweights, these men telling me about what it’s like out there now.

Wolves, I learned, have changed lots of things. Their presence is, without a doubt, very disturbing to people around here. I heard of the golden retriever snatched from the farmyard just up the highway. I heard of the huge male wolf carrying a thirty-pound raccoon across the road as if it were a kitten, just up the highway. I heard of the wolf who popped up here and there in a farmyard and who met his end ten feet from the rancher’s wife, just up the highway. I heard of the pair that moved into the neighborhood a few miles from town, just down the highway. I heard of the large male wolf that stared at a seasoned mushroom hunter from twelve feet away, not afraid, not startled, not curious, but just there, just suddenly there, just up the highway. I heard of the hunter on the other side of the state who shot repeatedly at the wolves attacking his hounds, emptying, then filling his gun. I was told that he flung one of his dogs over his shoulder and had to defend this dog from a wolf at his feet, even while he was gunning down its packmates.

I heard level-headed grandfathers say that, because they have dogs and grandkids, they now pack heat when heading into the wilds. I was instructed to do the same. I thought about it. I thought about it. I thought about my ditzy dog who, if confronted with a wolf pack would most likely either try to play or conquer, neither of which is a smart move. I thought about my own fear of bears, knowing that I would most likely lose any semblance of composure should a wolf cross our path.

And I thought of a poem I wrote about being prey:

Wolves? You too. Bring your pals.
Make me a canine banquet.
You scare me much less
than the pack of dizzied symptoms
that is Alzheimer’s.
Take my flesh.
Let my mind remember it.

From “Predation,” The Silence of Bright Star www.eloquentbooks.com/TheSilenceOfBrightStar.html

The brave stance of these lines wilted when it was time for Sadie and me to begin our trek. I did, in fact, change our plans. We still explored the gorgeous trail, especially the section that heads into the remote canyon. We still savored the luscious green and wildflower splash of this high mountain May. We still enjoyed the bright flash of yellow, white, blue songbirds. But we didn’t hike for miles and miles, off on a solitary adventure. We did most of our gazing from spots within view of the road and only hiked a section of the trail near a town, a town so small that a sign posted in its core says “Yes, this is Fruitvale.”

So why did I let the local counsel change my plans? Why did I succumb to the fear of others? I’m not sure. I’m a brave person, one who travels by herself, frequently heading out to remote places all alone. I’ve been a solitary traveler often in my adult life. Why now did I change my plans in response to dangerous possibilities?

I do not know the answer. I do know that the notion of being prey, of my dog being prey, was not one I liked. Rationally, I understand the statistics about wolf attacks on humans and know that the creatures have most likely moved further up slope, where elk calves and deer fauns are abundant. But, for some reason, I chose to be more cautious than usual on this wildland trail.

I don’t think I was convinced that we would encounter wolves. Just didn’t feel like hiking with a victim’s mindset. Didn’t want to keep looking over my shoulder, gasping at each snapped twig, hyperventilating at each shadow. Just didn't want to spend my time feeling like the frail heroine in Rackham's fairy tale illustration shown here. Just didn’t want to spend my time on the trail acting like prey.