I got started really late on this one, about lunch-thirty. I have a cogent list of excuses but stupidity and a really, really warm bed in a really, really cold room this morning pretty much summed it up.
It’s always nice to start the journey off with a little hair-pulling frustration. Insert Cloud Cap Trail, the Sullivan Edition. Now, I know the Sullivan hiking books are like the Dead Sea Scrolls around here but I’ve found enough discrepancies to cut my worship in half. Trust me: It ain’t 0.2 miles to the 600 junction and you take the trail that goes down in order to go up, not the obvious one with all the footprints on it. The footprints are merely testament to the vast numbers of other duped souls. Happily, this route climbed rapidly above the tree line, rendering the illusion that I came much further, much faster. It was a beautiful day (which explained the approximately 1.2 million hikers around me) and I was grateful to have remembered sunscreen because the mercury rose far faster than I did on the mountain that day.
I made the Timberline Trail junction at 6650′ in record time and sincerely wanted to enjoy lunch in the shade of the famous rock shelter but when three middle-aged drunks in lawn chairs salute you with their Budweiser cans from the doorway and shout at you to join them over the din of oldies rock music blaring inside, you suddenly become an introvert. I traded snacks with a couple who was also hiding from the “party” and none of us ventured back for photos. Instead, I snapped a quick shot of the trail junction marker and leaned into the task of another three miles of dusty switchbacking incline just crawling with hikers.
Adams, Rainer, and St. Helens (right to left) were being awfully majestic on the clearest Oregon day I’d ever seen. At the spur’s rim, the wind got naughty. Each time you veered to the edge and got an eyeful of Eliot Glacier you also got a face full of andesitic dust and sand. I don’t know why people pay for Lasik surgery, they could just stand on Cooper Spur Trail and let the prevailing winds grind down their corneas for free.
Feeling the clock tick (and having no head lamp on me)(like a moron), I hauled ass to Tie-In Rock and a little bit beyond, thinking I had plenty of time to get up there and pet a glacier: Just look at that sun shine!
I looked around me and suddenly noticed that it was very quiet. The hordes were gone. I was all alone on the mountain, save one or two ice climbers who were camped out on the ridge. Even the Search and Rescue training team below was leaving. You can see their ant-like profiles inching their way across the bottom of Eliot Glacier right at the shadow line. (Double-click the image below.)
When the pros start pulling up their proverbial tent stakes, I take notice. I turned around. In the waning light, things became ominous and creepy, transforming crevasses deep enough to swallow a Hummer from beautiful to menacing.
Solid evidence, and I do mean solid, of Hood’s mere dormant status and ongoing volcanic activity showed up in bright relief on the trail. Large yellow clods of sulfur justified the smell I picked out here and there on the stiff breeze. I had the pleasure of kibitzing with a geologist earlier in the hike and he confirmed my nasal suspicions: This stratovolcano is still out-gassing, it’s no where near finished. Stratovolcanoes, by the by, are the most volcanoey volcanoes of them all. Think lava bombs and deadly pyroclastic clouds and running and screaming.
I only got about halfway between Tie-In Rock and my goal of petting a glacier before the day ran out. Pretty damned frustrating, actually. You would think this taught me a lesson once and for all about always packing a headlamp, but…well….
The curious way the smoke held its form for so many miles caught my attention. There must have been a perfect conduit of warmth and moisture at that elevation, a sort of sooty highway in the sky. It never spread nor dissipated, just oozed along in thick ropes like sleepy boa constrictors.
The Cascade Mountain Ash was resplendent in Technicolor hues. It flowed over the trail like molten lava.
Then I witnessed something completely awesome: The internal anatomy of a Shadow Monster. I saw the terminator line of Mt. Hood’s shadow in cross-section as it plunged like a javelin into the forest below.
Called a mountain shadow spike, this strange and exciting phenomenon is a direct extension of the shadow and occurs when the observer is entirely within the three dimensional shape of the shadow as it is cast upon the ground to the side of it’s object. Humidity and particulates in the air make this visually possible, you won’t see it on an extremely clear day–let’s hear it for that pink smoke!
The mystical illusion of whiter light bending around the outside edge of the shadow is most likely a Mach band. Thank you, Dr. Kerton, and whomever else you cajoled into ferreting out these fun facts at that ISU faculty meeting.
I barely made it out of the woods at the end of civil twilight, I might have done the last hundred yards by feel. That head lamp is LIVING in my pack from now on. From the parking lot I watched the dark line of the earth’s shadow curve gently below the pinkish Belt of Venus after sunset. Very cool. The final thrill came during the slow drive down lumpy Cloud Cap Road. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a large building on fire way off in the distance. I slowed down and it became the intense red lights of a major aircraft flying dangerously close to the ground. Moments later, I pulled the truck over in the pitch black with a reverent “Holy Shit!”
The moon was so blood red that it defied reality. Multiple attempts at capture with an old DSLR taught me two things: I need a better camera and I need a tripod. I resigned myself to taking a mental picture as I passed hikers leaning awkwardly over the hoods of Audis and Subarus, doing their best to commemorate a truly dramatic event. That pink smoke knew what it was doing today.
September 25, 2010