Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Sheep Mountain - Attempt 1, Part 2

Continued from Part 1

Ambrose caught up to me and I explained to him that the trail had disappeared. He did the same things that I did, looking for the trail to cross the stream, if it was visible anywhere ahead or if there were any markings up the bank indicating an alternate route. He didn't find anything other than what might have been footholds up the bank, so we decided to go up and see what we could see.

I tried to use the camera zoom to find the trail beyond.
I was nervous to be climbing unsecured on a steep wall of ball bearings and rocks. I climbed faster than Ambrose did, and, well, maybe a tiny bit higher than was strictly necessary. It just didn't seem safe to go down, no matter where I went. I finally ended up high above the trail, standing above a couple of bushes that held the dirt in place with their roots. I had an excellent view from there, and I decided, based on the map and what I thought was a trail continuing on next to the stream below, that the trail was simply washed out in one section.

I was able to match this terrain up to the topo map and determine that the trail should have stayed next to the stream and must have been washed out. 
Ambrose was having a harder time with the climb than I had. I found out after we were both back on the trail that he had fallen, sliding back down to the trail certain he was about to land in the water. That sapped his strength, but he managed to clamber back up until he was close enough to hear me yell over the rushing noise of the water. I told him not to climb as high as I had, and to cut across because it looked like the trail was there. He told me to slide down on my butt. Not the best method to prevent erosion perhaps, but a really good method when you're probably going to end up sliding even if you don't mean to.

Even though I was a lot higher up than he was, I beat him down to the trail with a fun/scary slide/climb. And it was the trail again, clearly washed out on this end as well. I wasn't looking forward to the return trip, but I knew I could do it. We had gotten this far, and we would be able to get back.

I just hoped that there wouldn't be any more crazy detours or scary crossings. I was running out of patience on what was supposed to be a nice easy hike to start our season.

The trail continued to climb. We were camped out at about 5000 feet and the summit of Sheep Mountain is over 8100. Up to the first log crossing, we had only gained about 400 feet, so we had a lot of altitude to chew up as we approached the start of the switchback that would lead us to the saddle of Sheep Mountain.
The first snow appears across the stream from the trail.
Patches of snow appeared across the stream, bridging it in some places, though not in a way that I would trust to hold my weight. I enjoyed the way that the breeze blowing down carried a chill from the snow it had blown over before caressing my face. The altimeter/barometer insisted that the temperature was in the mid-sixties, but it couldn't account for the wind chill, which became more intense the higher we got. Not cold enough to get my gloves back on, but close.
A snow bridge that I would in no way trust my weight to...
We hiked up the trail without any more travails to navigate. The area around the trail widened out and we found ourselves in a muddy and burned up area. The stream had gotten shallow enough to ford without getting water above even my boot tops, though it still flowed quickly. Ambrose wanted to get a refill on his water, and I agreed that it would be a good time to stop, since the stream was intermittent according to the map. Plus, we would soon be heading up a switchback towards the saddle of Sheep Mountain and there were no streams on that section of the trail, intermittent or otherwise.
Looking back at Ambrose down the trail, I can see that we're gaining altitude.
So we stopped and filtered water from the stream into our water bladders. Not very far past that point, the stream called it quits and disappeared. Then the trail forked and we started the extreme uphill portion of the day's climb - although there were plenty of switchbacks so the trail itself wasn't actually that steep, it just zigged and zagged.
The burned area.
As we approached a ridgeline that seemed like it would be the saddle, but it wasn't (not nearly high enough at a mere 7000 feet), Ambrose said that he heard voices. I paused to listen, and I heard something as well, so we looked down on the trail and saw two tiny figures on the trail below. One had a bright yellow shirt on, and one wore a white hat - other than that, we couldn't discern much about them. They didn't appear to be wearing packs, and they started running as we watched, so we concluded they were crazy trail runners who probably had slim bladder packs for water. Or Lifestraws.
A panorama of the view from the ridgeline.
On the other side of the ridgeline from the trail, there was a cornice (snow off the edge of the ridge that looks like it could totally support your weight, but it really, really can't). I pointed it out to Ambrose, because it wasn't something that I had much experience with, though I knew he did from his days hiking with the Sierra Club. (Okay, I called it a couloir and he corrected me... a couloir is more like a crevasse.)
The cornice looks like it could be walked on, but it is just snow resting on air.
We kept hiking up, but I was paying attention to the time. I wanted to call a halt either at noon or when we reached the saddle, but I wasn't optimistic about reaching the saddle before noon. Then, I rounded a bend and saw a large pile of melting snow snuggled against the trail. It was like a sign. A stop sign.
Looking back down the steep switchback.
This snow is melting on the trail, and I know it is a sign of things to come.
Even though I wanted to reach the saddle, and the peak, I've learned enough by now to put together a few pieces of information:

  1. If there's snow at 7200 feet, then there will be more snow at 8000 feet. 
  2. We were not prepared to hike through snow.
  3. This trail was of the type that can be most readily found by looking at the ground and saying, "huh, that looks like trail." Not a lot of blazes or log cuts or anything helpful like that that would be visible if the entire way turned into a snow field. 
  4. We had 4 travails to get through to get back to the tent, and I really didn't want to be exhausted when navigating any of them. 

Adding these pieces of information together, I decided that I would, reluctantly, propose to Ambrose that we turn back. I turned around and waited for him to catch up to me. He looked tired as he walked up, and asked me what time it was. I told him it was 11:40, and he said that we should stop for lunch. I told him there was snow and the trail and pointed it. Then I told him I thought we should turn back.

He agreed even before I pointed out all the reasons why it was a good idea. We had been hiking for about 5 hours and already encountered more obstacles than we had anticipated. We sat down on the side of the trail and enjoyed the view while we ate lunch.
The lunch view.

Ambrose framed by the view.

This pretty blue bird sat very still for this shot. 
I looked up the trail one more time at the snow melting onto the trail. I'd be back.

After eating, we started back down the trail. I moved faster walking down the trail than I could have in the past. By paying attention to my gait, I was finally getting a handle on the ITB pain. I feel like every time I figure out something that is causing the pain, I proclaim the issue to be over. Then it comes back and I have to figure out something else. But I felt good walking down the switchbacks, and I even walked a lot faster than Ambrose.

But when we reached the trail intersection and I pointed out how much faster I had walked, he insisted that he was letting me walk ahead without pressuring my speed. Also, he was working on his own gait, trying to walk without pain. We're both trying to hike smarter this year.
We planned on taking a shorter route over the washed out portion of the trail this time, now that we knew what was going on with it. I kept an eye on the terrain, looking out for the area where the wash out was, because I was nervous. I didn't want to fall into the river, and I also didn't want Ambrose to fall into the river.

We were close when I was navigating a rocky, wet portion of the trail. I looked up and saw a guy coming up the slope. I stepped off the trail and shouted back to Ambrose that people were coming so he could stop off as well. The first guy went by at a slow jog, followed by a second guy, who started to warn me about the washed out trail. I told him I knew it was there and thanked him for the information. Then they were gone and we were practically there.

A better view of the washed out portion of the trail.
The other end of the trail was clearer from this end than it was from the other, but not that much easier to navigate. A tree grew above the wash out, and Ambrose said that we would just go over the tree. But when we got there, I found that I, at least, couldn't do that. There was too much rocky, sheer space between the tree and the other end of the trail. So I went up.

Not as high as I went on the way out, but high enough that coming down was a nerve wracking experience. I ended up sliding on my butt down a good portion of the dirt above the trail, and somewhere up there my pants lost the battle against the rocks and dirt. I found a slice in my pants right on my seat once I came down safely on the trail.

Ambrose came down after me, and we kept on going, reaching the burned log in what seemed like no time at all. That one was an easy crossing, albeit a messy one. But I knew that the next one would be harder and scarier.
This log seems a lot higher when you're on it.
The worst part was waiting for Ambrose to cross. I wanted to go first in a way, because I knew I could go a lot faster than he could. But his going first made sense, since if it could take his weight, then it could take mine, while the reverse wouldn't necessarily be true.

We didn't walk down this one like we walked up it though. We wrapped our legs around it and slid down while clinging for dear life. Okay, that's what I did. I'm not sure what Ambrose was thinking while he made his way across at a rate I felt a snail could better. I went as fast as I possibly could, and gave another whoop once I made it. We only had to hike about another hour before we made it to the camp and could relax.

After a quick sit down and snack, we set off. Ambrose said we could meet up at the car, but I wanted to go through the detour together since it might present some difficulties. A trail can look very different coming from the other direction. It's a good idea to stop, turn around, and look back at the trail when you know you're going to be coming back.
The view back to the campsite. 

The trail was still quite wet in places. 

I almost stepped on this snake that was hanging out in the water on the trail.
So I tried to stay well ahead while also stopping to take photographs whenever I felt like I was far enough ahead that he wouldn't catch me. I got farther ahead as we got closer to the campsite, and I actually had to wait a bit once I reached the detour. The water level had gone down in the last 9 hours, but not enough to get through the trail.
Plenty of daylight left before the detour.

Less water on the path, but we didn't want to risk not taking the detour.

Trying to get back to the trail from the detour.
I led the way this time, and it wasn't nearly as scary as it had been on the way out. I think part of that came from knowing that the campsite was so close. Once we got off the detour it was a very short walk to the car and the tent.
The camp at last!
By the clock on the altimeter/barometer, we got back around 2:30pm, after 9 hours and 21 minutes on the trail. Or so we thought...

Even though we used the clock, a clock isn't necessary when you're out backpacking. You can eat when you're hungry, sleep when you're tired and hike while the sun shines.

That didn't stop me from giving Ambrose a hard time for not taking daylight savings time into account when he set the altimeter/barometer...

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Sheep Mountain - Attempt 1, Part 1

Time doesn't matter on a backpacking trip. You eat when you're hungry and sleep when you're tired. Daylight matters, but you don't need a watch to know that the sun is shining. My cell phone can only tell time when it has network access, so once we were twenty minutes outside of Boise, the only time piece we had was the altimeter/barometer, which Ambrose had set before he left to pick me up from work.

For the solo trip that I didn't take up Sheep Creek last year, I would have been dropped off at the bridge that marks the boundary between Boise and Elmore counties. Ambrose would have driven on alone to meet me where Roaring River Road meets the trail. The trick was, neither of us had driven down Roaring River Road before, so I might have had to hike out to find him if our car couldn't handle it. As it turns out, the car was able to navigate the road, even though I cringed every time a large rock hit the underside of the car. I kept offering to get out and move rocks so that we wouldn't have to drive over them, but Ambrose just took it slowly and drove on.

At times, the road seemed barely wide enough to fit even our small car. There were no guard rails, no barriers between us and a long slide down into the swollen river below. I tried not to be too tense, but I grew up in Illinois. These kinds of places just don't exist there. Once we arrived at the trailhead, it was a relief to walk around looking for a good place to set up the tent until my legs had lost that rubbery feeling.

The river provided ambient white noise as we set up camp and finished eating dinner. I checked the time on the altimeter and determined it had taken us two hours to get settled into the tent from the time we arrived. Not bad at all for the first trip of the year. I made sure the alarm was set, and tried not to be too obviously unhappy at Ambrose's plan for us to get up at 5am.

I slept well, only needing to get up once to answer a call of nature, until about 4am when a little bird decided that our tent was in desperate need of a serenade. A serenade that lasted nearly an hour. There was no way for me to fall back to sleep when what sounded like an especially sweet alarm clock kept going off with no snooze button.

At 10 to 5, I'd had enough. I asked Ambrose if he was sure he'd set the time correctly, because I didn't believe that the birds would be up two hours before sunrise. He assured me that he had set it, double-checking the time against his computer.

So, we started to get ready to leave. In a little over an hour, we had eaten breakfast, gotten the day packs packed up and headed out. I started up the chronometer on the altimeter/barometer as we walked to the trailhead so I would know how long we hiked. I didn't want to have to remember what time we left, and what time we got back and figure out the time when I could do it the easy way.

Ready to leave camp. 

Heading to the trail head!
The sun was up by this time, but not high enough to hit us as we started walking up the canyon. I've learned my lesson about starting out wearing too many layers while hiking. I was a bit chilly wearing my long sleeved shirt and gloves, but I began to warm with exertion quickly. The road crossed the river and turned, but the trail continued to follow it up stream. I led the way, paying careful attention to how I was placing my feet. We had been hiking for only a few minutes when the trail before us became a part of the river.

The Roaring River swollen with water. 
Now, there was a sign at the trail head warning that this area had been burned and there might be fallen trees, washed out trails, floods or other diversions. I had a moment of disappointment, seeing the trail, and our planned hike, disappear before my eyes, but then I saw the pink tape waving in the wind. There was already a detour in place.

But it wasn't an easy one.

In order to get past the flooded path, we had to climb up the steep, burned out bank. The area wasn't entirely burned out, but evidence of the fire was clear in charred trunks and the crumbling dirt that slid beneath our feet as we tried to follow the trail of pink flags.

I tried to lead the way, but I got nervous as I found myself climbing higher and higher on ground that slid like ball bearings under my boots. So I asked Ambrose to take the lead and stopped trying to focus on route finding over keeping my footing. I followed his lead, and we made it up and over and finally down to where the path came out from under the water.

Ambrose scouts the trail detour.
After the detour, there was a nice, though damp, area to camp, complete with a fire ring and cut log seats. We spent a few moments looking around it before heading on. Ambrose surprised me by saying that this would be where we would bivouac if we didn't get past the reroute before dark. I couldn't imagine that we wouldn't make it back by then, but I was glad that he was thinking ahead. It would be a miserable way to spend the night, but better than slipping down the slope into the roaring river below.

Not a bad place to camp, if necessary.
We hiked on as the sun crept down the canyon, taunting me by shining on the opposite side of the river first. The trail was easy to see and stay on, though it did turn into water a few more times, the water was never too deep to navigate through. I tried to be mindful of the trail by walking through the water rather than on the side of the trail. After all, what else are water-proof boots for?

The sun is creeping up. 

Snow and sunlight on the slopes ahead. 
When I saw the bridge across the river had not been flooded over, I was happy, because there simply wouldn't be a way to ford it. In an emergency, we could have used the rope that Ambrose carried to help ourselves cross without being swept away, but the speed and depth of the water precluded that kind of effort just to keep going (especially since we'd have to cross back). I was so happy, that I didn't notice the deer that leaped away from the river until Ambrose pointed them out.

We could see evidence of the deer on the trail before we saw the actual deer.
They blend in quite well against the hillside. 
It wasn't very far to the next bridge, and we took our first break there, after about 90 minutes of hiking. As we sat on the bridge, the sun came ever closer to shining on us, and I decided I could pack up my gloves rather than continuing to wear them. My hands were only a little chilly after that, and only for a little while.

According to the map, we would have two more crossings to make, but I had only seen the two bridges when I looked at online maps. Unless the river got a lot shallower or slower really fast, we were facing the potential of having to turn back after less than 2 hours. Maybe there's a bridge, I thought, or a shallow ford or a convenient tree trunk.

Well, there was a tree trunk.

But I wouldn't exactly call it convenient.

Two logs, both partially burned, spanned the water well above any conceivable flood line. Well enough above that I hiked well upstream trying to find a better option before Ambrose called me back. He was already crossing, leaving me with no choice but to follow as soon as he made it across. He always goes first across these kinds of crossings, the theory being that if they hold his weight, they should hold mine.

And I was't particularly worried about the log holding my weight. Instead, I was freaked out about losing my balance and tumbling 10 feet into 3 to 4 feet of rocks and furious water. Okay, maybe it was more like an 8 foot fall (6 foot?). No matter, it was too high for my comfort. But I walked across it, one trekking pole digging into the small second log on my left and one trying to find purchase on the right of the log I walked on.

Not helping my nerves: the fact that the damn thing bounced under my weight.

It also sloped uphill, and seemed a lot longer once I was on it.

But I made it across, and proceeded to give a loud woop. Because kissing the ground just wouldn't be dignified.

Not five minutes later, the trail ran into the water again. This was an off-shoot stream, sure, and not as deep as the roaring river, but it was surging fast and deep enough to sweep me off my feet. At least, I assume that's what would have happened if I tried to ford it. I didn't. Because Ambrose found another log.

There was barely room to get off the log on the other side. 
This one was so completely charred on the outside that he had not considered it a viable option at first, but when further scouting revealed no other options, he decided to check it out.

It took his weight, but there would be no walking across this one. One at a time, we scooted across it, clinging with our legs and half-crawling forward.

At least this one didn't bounce.

The charred log crossing left its mark. 
It did end in a steep slope of dirt that we had to navigate in order to get back to the trail. But it was going to be smooth going from there, because we had no more stream crossings... according to the map.
Looking back while waiting for Ambrose to catch up with me. 
Unfortunately, maps aren't always right.

The trail dropped down beside the stream and then, once again, disappeared into the river. Only this time, there was no indication of a crossing. It just ended, as if you were expected to keep walking right into the water. I had been walking ahead of Ambrose, so I had to wait for him to catch up. Next to the trail on the right was a steep wall of dirt, rocks and brush. To the left and ahead was water. I had no idea where to go, but I didn't want to turn back, not after we'd conquered the detour and two scary log crossings!
Where did the trail go?
To be continued...

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Attempting Sheep Mountain

Last year, I planned on doing my solo hike in the Boise National Forest, on a trail that my husband and I had not hiked before, although we had hiked a good portion of the trail from another direction. I gave myself three days and two nights and allowed for an option to summit Sheep Mountain.

Then the fires got really bad. The area where I planned to hike was closed as the Elk Complex fire threatened it, and we rearranged my hike for a Stump Lake itinerary. I was happy to do the solo hike, and even happier to write up the experience in a book for my mom.

But I still wanted to see if I could summit Sheep Mountain, and if the trail that I thought I would use was passable and accessible as it appeared to be on the map. And this weekend, my husband and I are going to do it. Well. We're going to try to do it.

It won't be a backpacking trip, not quite, but a car camping trip. For us, car camping means we bring the big heavy tent, the large camping stove and as much whatever as we can fit in the car in addition to day hiking packs. The plan is to drive out on Friday night, and then get up early for a day hike towards Sheep Mountain on Saturday with a return drive on Sunday morning.

I can't wait :)

I reviewed the route online, and, of the dozen stream crossings I counted on the map, I found two bridges, which is a bonus. Plus there’s always the chance that the streams on the map have dried up or changed course. But the route seemed longer than I thought it was when I tried to trace the trail. That might have something to do with zoom factor, but I’m going to try and prepare myself for the possibility that we won’t make it all the way to the summit in the day that we have.

Also, Ambrose thinks that there’s a possibility for snow. Not that it will snow necessarily, but that there will be unmelted snow lingering on the trail, especially towards the summit of the mountain. While that still seems foreign to me after growing up in Illinois where snow in May would be extraordinarily strange, I know that he’s right.

Between snow and a time limit, I know we might not make it. But I also know that there’s a chance that we can.

Next week, pictures and the verdict!

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Working for the Feeling

A couple weeks ago, I was doing an interval run around the track at the rec center. I would do one slow lap, then ¾ slow and ¼ fast, half and half, ¼ slow and ¾ fast followed by one lap fast then repeat. I was aiming for 33 laps, and around lap 25, on a ¾ slow segment, I experienced this feeling of bliss.

It was as if I was running without effort, without strain, like it wasn’t even work anymore to move my body. Every part of my body felt like unified, and I decided not to finish the run with the speed intervals. Instead, I just tried to maintain that feeling of being in perfect motion.

I couldn’t hold on to it, but I was excited anyway. By having that experience, I knew what was possible, what I was capable of with running.

And then I came down with a sinus infection. 12 days of feeling absolutely miserable; 13 days without running.

I know what happens by now when I go too long between runs. I still have some habit of motion or stillness that makes my right hip stiff. I think I’ve been able to stretch my time between runs to about 5 days without consequences, but 13 was too many. Whatever the next run was, I knew it was going to be painful for me.

And it was.

My husband decided that on the first day that I was feeling well enough to run, we should run up to Table Rock. So we did.

We walked to the Greenbelt and then jogged over to the Warm Springs Golf Course. From there, we took trails up to Table Rock.

By the time we reached the golf course, my hip was protesting. I ignored it and tried to use good form in my motion, but when I started to climb, I found running become more and more difficult. I had to slow to a walk for the steep sections, and then for all the sections.

The only thing that kept me going past the pain was the knowledge that I have to get through this if I want to get back to my pain free zone.

And, of course, the uphill portion wasn’t the hardest part. The steep downhill sections on the way back slowed my pace to a pathetic crawl that saw my husband get way ahead of me as he jogged his way down. I gritted my teeth and tried to maintain a proper pelvic tilt as I hobbled my way down to him.

I ended the run by walking fast and trying really, really hard not to limp.

And I did beat my husband home, since had to stop to get rocks out of his shoe.

The memory of that moment of blissful running was hard to hold on to during that “run.” I felt so angry at myself for being sick and doing whatever it is that I am doing (or not doing) to make my hip tighten up when I don’t run.

But I know I can get through the pain. I can re-adjust and start chasing that blissful feeling again. I just have to get to work.