I had snowshoed to the upper part of Willamette Pass Ski Area from the west side, puffing, tired, having gained a thousand feet elevation in 3 miles, but the novice trail, not steep,had only light snow accumulation. I was surprised at my fatigue. I still had to climb higher in deeper snow to reach Maiden Saddle so I could go down the back side to the Pacific Crest Trail to check it for diamond marker placement on the trees. I trudged back and forth, switchbacking up the hill, sometimes on the marked trail, usually not. At the top, I was puffing even more, and after it quieted, I worked my way down. I was beat, and while the altitude of 6400’ (1900m) was significant, this day was taking more out of me than I planned.
Tie trail coming off the Pacific Crest Trail about 400 m south of Lower Rosary Lake.
I have adopted a snowshoe trail that I visit every fall before snow to see if there are logs that will impact winter skiing and replace any diamond markers that have fallen off the trees or have been on trees that have fallen. I try to get someone to remove the logs, and I replace missing diamonds. In winter, I return to the trail, move diamond markers further up the trees, in case there may be so much snow that the markers could be buried.
On the way down, I left the winding, barely tracked trail, and went straight down the fall line to Upper Rosary lake, snowshoeing directly to and on the lake to the isthmus between it and Middle Rosary, where I had lunch. Cutting switchbacks in heavy snow is not harmful to the trail, unlike when there is no snow. That saved me at least a half mile’s trudging. I still had 4 miles to go to get out. I divvied up the distance into finishing the Rosary Lakes; the area between Lower Rosary, the largest of the three, and the tie trail junction that went back up the mountain; to the junction where the trail started to head west, rather than south. In that way, I broke up the distance in my mind and eventually made it back to the parking lot. I have been snowshoeing for several years, and while this trip had some deep snow, much was not.
Spring came, the snow melted, and I was fine, until I got tendonitis, which slowed me down, so I rested my leg in June and did fine until August, when the Crew worked the lower part of Olallie Mountain. I wasn’t the only one that day tired when the heat, humidity and the activity called an end to our work on the logs on the lower two miles. But it took me a full day to recover, not a half day, and that was new. Still, we worked the same area a few weeks later, when it was cooler, and I didn’t feel as tired as I had the first time.
The Crew then worked Crossing Way, a trail that goes into the Three Sisters Wilderness, a few weeks later. I had worked it in 2021 and found it long, uphill, and hot. It was the same this year, and I found myself fading after lunch; I didn’t bother stopping for a log loose in the middle of the trail and had to go back to deal with it. I was getting sloppy, being in plodding hiking mode rather than clearing trail mode. Thirty minutes later, we worked on several logs, and when we finished those, I was done. It is an uncomfortable feeling to know there is a 4 mile hike ahead to get back, carrying gear, when one is tired. I was still within myself, but I didn’t like the sensation I had. Others felt the same way, and we hiked out a very long hour and a half.
This log was cut so that it balanced, and we could move it with a finger. We pushed it off the log below.
The last log out of the year, as it turned out, was Olallie Mountain again, this time the summit trail, 2 miles climbing about 1000 feet, after first hiking in the 2 miles we had done two other times that summer. We had three crews working, and there were single logs, multiple logs, logs with branches, one after another. We thought it would be cooler in October, and some of us took less water to lighten our load. I was tired by lunch. After lunch, I had what was becoming the all too familiar sensation of climbing slowly. The logs seemed more difficult, the Sun hot, my water starting to dwindle. I reached a plateau with the summit still nearly a mile and 70 logs away, impossible to complete this day. I took a break and lay down in the shade in the woods. Someone came by and I told them I would be getting up in a couple of minutes, but I felt comfortable but tired, and didn’t want to get up.
I had been thinking as I had climbed how much more further I had to return, and I needed the ability to return. I heard a person behind me on the trail who was starting down, and I finally got up and joined him. More than an hour later, with a half mile to go, I was out of water. I filled my water bottle in a stream, planning to purify it when I got to the vehicles. Fortunately, when I arrived, one of the vehicles was open and I got the water I had left behind. I realized then that I could no longer do a full day of climbing and working at altitude beyond certain distances.
I’ve seen many changes in myself in my mid seventies. I am more cold sensitive now, whereas I used to hike in shorts and short sleeved shirts. Even in summer, I often will use long pants in the morning. I also notice other hikers on the trail, other walkers in town, are faster than I am, not that I am racing—I’m not—but I am slower. The Club has fast hikers, and shortly before the winter episode on Willamette Pass, I found myself at the back of a hike and never seeing the leader except at the mandatory stops at trail junctions. That was new.
Every year I can hike, snowshoe, and do trail work is a gift. It has been the last few years. Many are denied that gift. I’m looking forward to snowshoeing this winter, but with a wary eye on distance. I’m a volunteer, not the paid help. Protect the brain, and then let the brain take care of the body.
The author on Olallie Mountain, July 2023
Boreal B[l]og 
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