Jane's Blog: Jefferson Park: The 20th Anniversary Mother

It’s been several weeks since I last wrote. Blogging takes time. I can live life, or I can write about it. Lately, I’ve been living it.

Much has changed since I wrote last month. I kept hiking (and teaching). I finally reached Franklin Lake – a twelve-mile day. Another twelve-mile day took me to Pear Lake. Was I ready, finally, to carry a pack without getting totally wiped out?

This summer, it’s been twenty years since the first mother–daughter backpacking trip, when Rhiannon was ten years old. To honor this anniversary, she suggested we return to

Jefferson Park.

On that first trip, we went in from Woodpecker Ridge to the south. The parking is high, and the side trail joins the Pacific Crest Trail for an easy hike north along the western flank of Mt. Jefferson.

We both remember that trip well – camping at a tiny lake, crossing a roaring river, and camping in mosquitoes and snow.

But what we mainly remember is the hike out. After a night or two, we continued north up Park Ridge, where we looked back down from 7,000 feet to the lakes and meadows of the “park” where we’d just camped. But to the north, where my mother was to meet us at Breitenbush Lake, a giant snowfield stretched for three miles, with only a single set of footprints showing the way.

We followed the footprints.

Several hours later, we reached Breitenbush Lake just in time to see the last car pull out of the campground. And there we sat down to wait. And wait….

Meanwhile, my mother – with her own mother, aged eighty-five, and Emily, who’d just turned six – was following a rocky track that became worse at every bend. Stopping near Ollalie Lake, she sought advice. “What kind of rig are you driving?” she was asked. She climbed back into her little Camry and continued on.

By the time the car arrived, we were cooking up the last of our camping food and preparing for a long night in the campground.

You might think that after a trip like that – the bugs, the snow, the long wait – we would have been discouraged. But no… we’ve backpacked every summer since then. Seven days across the Oregon Wallowas was the longest trip. A couple miles along Idaho’s Snake River (at 95-plus degrees) was one of the shortest. Sometimes the two of us go alone; other trips, we have company. Often we’re limited by time, or by my lack of fitness. But always, we do it.

This time we chose the Park Ridge route – it’s the most challenging way into Jefferson Park, but also the prettiest. Though it was early August, the trail still had long stretches of snow. We started up at 4 p.m. on Tuesday, hiking past tiny lakes and scarlet-colored paintbrush, through snowfields and swarms of mosquitoes.

We didn’t meet many people that day – just a few through-hikers, including a man who’d left the Mexican border on April 22nd. Though I’ve always wanted to do that whole trip, hiking six miles to Jefferson Park was enough of a challenge for now.

By evening, we were on top of the ridge, with Mt. Jefferson shining pink, and the sun somehow still lighting up the meadows and lakes of Jefferson Park beneath it.

The light faded during the downhill stretch. We could see Russell Lake below us, so I told Rhiannon to go find a campsite. I followed at my usual slow place. The trail seemed to go on and on. And on.

I tried a shout, the family contact call we’d used for finding each other in the African rain forest – Aaah-oo-waaah! No answer.

Finally I stopped, dropped the pack, and dug out the map, my glasses, and a head lamp. (I like head lamps: wherever you look, it’s light.)

Surprise – I’d missed the turn-off to the lake. I tried another shout and headed back the way I’d come.

After a while, I heard Rhiannon give our call. I gave the “I hear you” response – Oooh-oo. At our camp in the trees, I put up my tent while Rhiannon heated water for freeze-dried chicken with rice. We sat under the stars till nearly midnight. The Milky Way seemed to erupt from Mt. Jefferson, flowing north toward the ridge.

We spent Wednesday exploring meadows, photographing flowers, circling lakes, swimming in the reflection of Mt. Jefferson. Jefferson Park is a mosaic of patchy forest and green meadows where melting snow creates countless tiny pools. The pools mirror pieces of mountain and breed millions of mosquitoes. It’s one of my favorite places in the world.

Thursday we hiked out over the ridge, glissading down across the snow – Rhiannon quickly, while I followed more slowly.

I’m grateful to have a daughter who’s been so patient with me, all these years. And the promise of summer backpacking inspires me to push myself beforehand and travel long distances to wherever she’s working – Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, Washington.