#or section f

[pcttrailsidereader]

“Tacocat” is charging ahead and, as July comes to a close, is headed into Washington state.  But he has left us with stunning images of the PCT’s three northern-most volcanoes in Oregon - Three-Fingered Jack (top left), Mt. Hood (top right), and Mt. Jefferson (bottom).  [Of course, hikers will not encounter these peaks in this order.]

Several years ago, Russell “Morrissey” Mease posted an account of his climb to the top of Three-Fingered Jack along with some stomach-churning photos. You can read his full story at:  http://pcttrailsidereader.com/post/38962848135/facing-my-fears-on-three-fingered-jack

Russell Mease at the top of Three-Fingered Jack

[pcttrailsidereader]

Of course, in early December this is what it looks like at Timberline Lodge!

[pcttrailsidereader]

Some beautiful early October weather in northern Oregon serves as a reminder about what pulls us back to the PCT year after year. Photo credit: Korinda Ohana Kay

[pcttrailsidereader]

Traveling Matt, 42, has taken time off from work and is spending a few months doing something “I’ve wanted to do since childhood.” He grew up in Truckee with the PCT nearby and has memories of early adventures along the trail. “In fact,” he says, “my earliest hiking memory is of a day-hike with my family along the PCT north from Donner Pass.”

He started in March and has broken the hike into four sections. Between each section he returns home to visit his “very understanding wife”. He has made good progress north and took these photos in August as he walked north. You can visit his blog at https://namamyos.wordpress.com/2016/

[pcttrailsidereader]

On the north side of Jefferson Park lies Park Ridge, which offers this magnificent view to the north. Olallie Butte (7,215') is silhouetted in the foreground  and Mt. Hood (11,235') illuminated in the far distance in this Tyson Fisher photo.

[pcttrailsidereader]

The Railroad to Nowhere

We are often reminded that the tread of the PCT really touches four dimensions . . . width, height, depth, and time.  Places we pass on the trail often have interesting histories. One of the stories that would enrich any passage of Santiam Pass, is the story of Thomas Egenton Hogg and his railroad to nowhere.

This old railroad grade can be seen near Santiam Pass (Photo Credit: Curtis Irish)

By David Foscue

On Santiam Pass in Oregon, between Mt. Washington and Three Fingered Jack, The PCT crosses the traces of a railroad dream, the dream of one of the more interesting promoters in the lore of the Pacific Crest Trail.

He called himself “Colonel” Thomas Egenton Hogg, but he was a naval man — for the Confederate navy.  He was arrested for leading an abortive attempt to commandeer an American steamship and received a life sentence. After the Civil War, Hogg was pardoned and released from Alcatraz Prison.  

In 1871 Hogg’s brother, a San Francisco financier, sent him to Oregon to enter the high-risk high-profit young business of railroad development.  Hogg organized a company to build a railroad across Oregon from Yaquina Bay at Newport to Boise where it would connect with a transcontinental rail line.  Hogg’s plans were ridiculed by Portland group that backed a competing route up the Columbia River.  

While others scoffed, Hogg became a serious contender when he interested a British investor who ultimately raised $15 million dollars in bonds for Hogg’s company, the Oregon Pacific Railroad.   In 1881 the company began laying track from Corvallis to Newport.  But the competition was tough —  the Portland group had bought up key properties on the Newport Bay in an attempt to block Hogg from the coast.  Hogg modified his plans and ended his railroad at “Yaquina City”, on the Yaquina Bay three miles short of Newport.

Hogg purchased a steamship to connect his new railhead to San Francisco, then turned his energies to extending his railroad eastward into the Cascades.  He had acquired a Federal franchise but the terms of the franchise required him to complete construction across the Cascade crest before he could claim the federal land grant across Eastern Oregon.  He was forty-three miles from the summit when his money began to run out.  Meanwhile his steamship sank;  Hogg suspected sabotage by the Portland group.

In a desperate attempt to secure his franchise, Hogg stopped construction in the foothills and moved his operation to Santiam Pass.   From a work camp at Big Lake, Hogg’s large crew cleared some eleven miles of right-of-way and laid a mile-and-a-half of track around Hogg Rock and across the Cascade crest. They then assembled a crude box car they had hauled up to the pass, loaded it with freight and pulled it back and forth across the pass with mules.  

Hogg Rock and the old railroad grade just west of the PCT as it crosses Santiam Pass

Hogg then asserted his right under the franchise to the land grant since he successfully built his railroad across the Cascade crest and was running freight across it.  The humorless federal government was not impressed and denied Hogg’s claim to the eastern Oregon lands.  The railroad was bankrupt, but probably not Hogg.  Portland grew to a major city.  Hogg’s “Yaquina City” disappeared.  Today a historical marker at Santiam Pass commemorates Hogg’s efforts.  Remnants of the railroad right-of-way can be seen from the PCT west to beyond Hogg Rock.

Hogg left Oregon, ending up in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where he died of “apoplexy”, appropriately on a streetcar, on December 8, 1898.   Hogg’s boxcar survived him, remaining at the pass for nearly 50 years.    

[pcttrailsidereader]

What a Great Story Prompt!

This brief news item in Saturday's edition of the Eugene Register-Guardian (June 22, 2013) caught my eye.  What a PCT story there is to be told behind this bare outline.  Man from arid and superheated Arizona tries his hand at the Pacific Crest Trail only to get waylaid in his first days by an late spring snowstorm.  Would I ever like to know the details . . . the rest of the story.

An Arizona man hoping to hike the Pacific Crest Trail from Oregon to California was rescued unhurt by a Lane County search and rescue team late Thursday night after he was stranded for four days in a snowstorm near the Old McKenzie Highway at the Lane/Deschutes county border, Lane County officials said Friday.

(Photo credit: US Geological Survey)

Rip Stouffer, 57, of Globe, Ariz., called 911 on his cell phone after he became stranded on the trail near Highway 242 — the Old McKenzie Highway — the county said.

Stouffer had been planning to hike alone from Highway 242 south to California via the Pacific Crest Trail, the county said. On Monday, about 10 miles from Highway 242, Stouffer had encountered winterlike conditions, the county said.

Stouffer had warm clothing, food and water but was not prepared for the severe sustained winterlike weather and snow accumulations, the county said.

He used his tent for a shelter and hunkered down until Thursday, when he called for help, the county said.

Stouffer was found late Thursday night, and crews removed him from the area early Friday morning. Stouffer was cold but not injured, the county said.

Snow storms high in the Cascade Range are not uncommon in June, the county noted.

(Photo credit: Mark Adamus)

[pcttrailsidereader]

Facing My Fears on Three-Fingered Jack

I love heights but I hate 'edges'. The very thought of grasping on crumbling rock to prevent myself from falling the hundreds of feet that I can see yawning below my feet is enough to tighten my stomach. Russ 'Morrissey' Mease's evocative account of his detour to the top of Three-Fingered Jack, the remnant sentinel of an ancient volcano in Central Oregon, elevated my blood pressure several times.  You are right there with him as he conquers his own fears to sit at the top of Three-Fingered Jack.

By Russell 'Morrissey' Mease

On the morning of August 31, 2012 I crossed Highway 20 at Santiam Pass before making my way up the trail toward Three-Fingered Jack (TFJ) six miles farther, distinguishable by its many jutting peaks.  At 7,481 feet, TFJ is not the tallest volcano in the cascades, but it is never the less a very distinguishable and dramatic form visible from hundreds of miles in either direction.  It is said to have three primary pinnacles, thus the name Three-Fingered Jack, but seen from the south it is not obvious which of the many spires are the namesake three.  

The PCT passes west of the summit where it connects to a spur trail which leads to the base of the mountain and there I find a piece of Day’s Inn stationary swiped from a room in Bend, OR, our last town stop, placed under a rock.  Siddhartha’s scribbles are scrawled across it:  

   “Totally addicted to getting high on rock. . . climbing Three-Fingered Jack,”

he announces to Washout, Threshold and myself.  Looking up from the note toward the peak I can barely make out the jagged top of the mountain through the trees lining the short side trail to the base of the mountain.

The Pacific Crest Trail follows generally the crest of a series of mountain ranges, through snowy passes and along high ridges, but the trail itself does not summit any major peaks - instead it winds around the base of mountains, bringing thru-hikers within spitting distance of most of the prominent peaks in the Cascade range.  Many peak ascents involve the PCT as the primary access route, and it is possible to position yourself to climb a dozen or more major peaks as you complete a thru-hike of the PCT.  For those who seek these greater thrills, peak-bagging along the way can provide a challenge and reward unparalleled on any other long distance trail.  The pull of a summit is to some, very hard to resist.

Siddhartha had been bragging about his climbing exploits throughout the hike.  As if hiking 20-30  miles every day was not enough, he had found the energy to climb a half a dozen or more peaks before TFJ including cascade mountains Thielsen and Middle Sister.  It is not that I need to compete with Siddhartha, for we all hike our own hike (HYOH) and my journey is not Siddhartha's journey, but his stories and pictures forced me to think about what I want for my own PCT experience. I do have something to prove to myself - that I can step off the well-worn path and be a risk-taker, even a path as magical as the PCT, and tread where few tread to experience what few experience.  I am on this quest to challenge myself, push my limits, see what is possible.  Just four months ago it seemed the biggest stretch merely to get to the start of the trail.  Now with over 2,000 miles behind me, I am seeking a greater challenge, something to test my newfound confidence.  

Pulling out my journaling pen, I scratch out a response below Siddhartha’s message, 

“I can't let him have ALL the fun!” 

and carefully placing the note back underneath the rock for the others, I head up the trail.

Past the initial jog through the trees, the trail quickly disintegrates into several paths up a steep sandy slope.  I choose my route and begin the climb, all gear on my back, my feet slipping a half step down the mountain with each step I take.  The route I chose is not a trail, as it turns out, but a wash of sand, scree, and rocks, and the effort to climb it is substantial.  The only solid footholds in the sand and scree are the infrequent large boulders buried deep enough to support me without sliding down the mountain under my weight.  Making frustrating progress in the scree, I decide to make my way over to the tree line to use the buried roots and branches of the small trees as footholds, and slowly make my way up to the solid rock outcroppings on the upper part of the mountain.

At the tree line I slide off my pack and leave it and one trekking pole and in a conspicuous place for retrieval on the way back down - needing a free hand for the rock scramble ahead.  Before continuing I throw out the hiker call/response “cueee!” and listen for several seconds ... no response.  

Soon I approach what I believe to be the summit on a rocky embankment only to be presented with another much taller rock tower to my left.  Straining to see the top, unmistakable in his hunter-neon-orange cap, I catch a glimpse of Siddhartha sitting like a Bodhisattva silently surveying the view from his perch.  In a world of his own, unaware of my presence, I feel like I am intruding on a personal moment.

Sending out the call again, I see him immediately perk up and look around.

“Cueeeeee!”  I call.

“Cueeeeee!”  his voice reverberates down to me. “Where are you?”  

“Turn to your right!”

“I see you!”  followed by, “...this could very well be the stupidest thing I have ever done.”  

This last response is an apparent attempt to discourage me from following him.  It gave me pause and should have halted me from climbing further.  It didn’t. This is what I was looking for when I started my climb. I had to reach that peak.

To get from where I stood to where he sat at the top of the rock spire forming the topmost point on Three-Fingered Jack took me two hours of effort.  At one point, I had to decide between two equally disturbing routes.  I took what looked like the safest route only to find myself, after twenty minutes of white-knuckle climbing, clinging to a crumbling rock wall, a thousand foot vertical of nothing but gravity and terror below me.  This “safe” route took me to a precarious place with no way forward, and I had to backtrack across a rock wall traverse, one of the most dangerous spots I have ever found myself, to get back to a solid platform.  Rock was crumbling beneath every other handhold, falling with eerie silence into the chasm below and then sending up echoes as it crashed and broke hundreds of feet below me.  I dared not look down for more than a brief moment.  I made my way slowly back to safety, took a few breaths, closed my eyes with gratitude that I had escaped a horrible fate, and then looked up at the only other route to the top, the route I had deemed much too risky for Free Soloing when I reached it earlier.  It was now the only way forward.

The route required a tricky move of leaning my center of gravity away from the wall while ducking under an overhanging ledge, before reaching the safety of the rock slope on the other side.  “Jeff had made it," I told myself.  “If he can do it I can do it.”  And I did...guided by Siddhartha's encouraging words, I rehearsed the move in my head several times, took a firm grip and leaned back, nothing but my fingers clutching baseball-sized knobs of crumbling rock to keep me from plunging down the mountain.  I made my moves only after testing each and every hold for stability, and emerged safely on the other side.

I had climbed to a saddle beneath the peak spiring 40-50 feet above me. The only way to the top was up a sheer a vertical wall that often leaned in more than 45 degrees.  Siddhartha had already descended this wall to meet me here at the base of the tower.  

As I sit down to survey the challenge in front of me, Siddhartha describes his strategy. The climb is fairly straight forward but it does require one or two long stretch moves.  The way up, he told me, is not the problem.  It’s the down-climbing that can be a problem.  With no one there to direct you and no way to see the footholds angled beneath you, you are forced to ‘feel around’ for footholds.  The term used to describe climbing, as we were, without any man-made protection is free soloing.  To free solo this wall would be slightly risky, but with two of us I felt more confident.  Yet, doubts still fluttered around in my head...

“I will stop if at any time I feel myself panicking or out of control”. 

“A slip and fall will certainly mean a broken back, severe trauma to the head and probably death”.

“At least Siddhartha will be here to carry my body down the mountain, right”?

“It would be a shame if I fall and die and am not able to complete my thru-hike"!

As I sit there working up my confidence, Siddhartha ascends and descends the wall again, as if to say to me, if I can do it twice, what’s your excuse?  As he is on the wall a shadow flies by me, and looking to my left I see a large juvenile bald-eagle circling the rock spire.  Soon another eagle comes into view and both soar in circles around us several times. An amazing feeling comes over me...I am in the company of eagles!

Rushing with adrenaline and pride, I climb the wall, moving deliberately and with deep concentration, and finally sit at the top on a spot approximately four feet by four feet - the real summit.  A wash of something indescribable flows through me as I sit there surveying the landscape - Washington and Thielson and the Three Sisters visible to the south, Mt. Jefferson’s unmistakable conical snow-covered peak to the north.  I can look down in all directions and see the volcanic walls of the summit spire falling steeply away below me.  Siddhartha is on the saddle below, the size of my thumb, cheering for my accomplishment and angling for a picture.

Fear begins to wash away and a flooding of emotion comes over me as my eyes well up and tears stream down my cheek.  Courageous or foolish - it didn’t matter right now.  Sitting here on this peak I begin to realize how precious these experiences are, how so very few people sit on this peak and take in views this spectacular.  Had I not taken a big risk and stepped out of my comfort zone to take my first steps on the Pacific Crest Trail four months ago, I would not be sitting on top of the world today.  This experience alone makes all the sacrifice worth it.  The feeling is amazing and one that will stay with me for a long time.

The down climb was daunting but having no choice I made quick work of it.  A few cross-throughs, a few deep stretch moves and I was down on the saddle again high-fiving Siddhartha.  We make it down the mountain safely, making good time.  The sand and scree that slowed me down on the way up the mountain speeds up my descent as every step is the same as three. Running down the mountain with poles in hand and sand filling my shoes, I feel like I am tele-skiing.  Down in the trees again, Siddhartha and I rest and eat lunch.  He pulls out a box of red wine he has carried from Bend and I share my aged Asiago cheese.  A fitting celebration for a memorable morning.

As I continued north on the PCT that afternoon, I tingle with satisfaction at the recent experience.  I knew I was hooked, “addicted to rock” as Siddhartha had put it.

Looking back at TFJ, I am reminded of something Steve Jobs said in his 2005 Stanford Commencement Speech.

“Almost everything – all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart”.

And so having faced my fear of death, if only briefly, I am more determined than ever to follow my heart.  I found the challenge I was seeking and it opened up a whole new world of adventure.   There is something about climbing a mountain that is distinct from hiking a trail.  The pull of the summit somehow gives a purpose and energy to every step that is sometimes lost in a long distance hike.  The energy is focused and purposeful.  The goal is not months away, but only hours, and the reward is often out of this world.  I knew this would not be my last summit attempt on this trip.  If a 7,500 foot crumbling volcano can offer so much, imagine what is waiting for me on the top of mountains twice this size!