Alpine Crazy

After a short but exhilarating day at 8500 feet we tramped down the mountain on a narrow rock-strewn trail. Unaccustomed to hiking in our ski boots we kicked up small clouds of ash. Among the tourists climbing the trail an old lady stopped and exclaimed, “It’s August! They’re crazy!”

We all smiled with a pleasure that reached clear to our toes. We might be crazy but we just experienced a day like no other—well not since July anyway. We had been on the mountain for almost 4 glorious hours skiing Mt. Hood’s Palmer Glacier with Japanese snow boarders and ski racers from across the country. Oh, and butterflies in their thousands.

We left Yakima at 5:00 AM—my cousin, my son and myself—a three and a half hour drive ahead of us. US 97, another two lane corridor of scenic beauty, leads south crossing the Yakama Indian Reservation, Toppenish Ridge, Satus Creek with its wild horses grazing on the hillsides and finally through the Simcoe Mountains at Satus Pass. From the pass it’s a steady descent though the pine forests and the wheat fields of Goldendale where we get our lattes and then the steep drop into the Columbia Gorge.

Its already a beautiful day, promising temperatures into the low 90s and blue skies. But where we’re going it won’t be much over 55 degrees. Down the river we fly past the fishing boats at the mouth of the Deschutes River. At The Dalles we turn off I-84 and climb steeply out of the Gorge. I’ve never been on this road before but our normal route to Mt. Hood is closed because of forest fires. We pass some beautiful country, rolling farmland, sagebrush and forest.

As we get closer to the mountain the air gets hazy and we can smell the smoke. The Mt. Hood Complex Fire is estimated at 400 acres with 200 firefighters trying to contain it. We will breathe its smoke the entire time we’re on the mountain. We reach the parking lot at Timberline Lodge. It doesn’t seem as crowded as it was in July but the usual suspects are here. The tour company vans with their huge plywood boxes on top and the blue-painted school bus with the basketball hoop bolted to the back. The shredders and the hard cores are here. The dread heads and the seldom washed are here too. The Japanese snowboard tourists and the ski campers are all here to pay homage to the Palmer and the only place on the North American Continent to offer year-round skiing.


We dress in the parking lot. Normally this is a very involved process but today we just pull on our boots. We clump to the ski lodge and the lift beyond. The only snow seems miles distant. We have two lift rides ahead of us. The liftie instructs us to carry our skis on the first lift. This is a change from July meaning the snow has receded past the top of the first lift. We get on.

The first lift ride, at any resort at any time of the year, always brings a smile. It’s as if all our cares were just dumped at the lift house. Today is special. This time the smile recognizes the craziness of it all. Skiing in August. Traveling three and a half hours. Skirting a forest fire. Skiing on a glacier. Our mission to ski all twelve months of the year. All of it is crazy. But we’re here, against all sensibility we’re here with a big grin, the wind in our face, and the butterflies fluttering across the landscape to destinations unknown.

We get off the lift and stumble down the ramp trying to hang on to our equipment without falling on our faces. We walk down the trail leading to another ramp—this one up to the second lift, the Magic Mile. It’s rocky and dusty and reminds us we are treading on a volcano and the pumice it belched out hundreds of years ago. We remember also that Mt. Saint Helens is not that far away in time or distance. We are finally on snow. Actually it's slush like what you’d find in a snow-cone but who’s counting. We stomp into our bindings and we’re off! I take our obligatory picture with a date stamp. We must have proof that we skied on this date or our grandchildren will never believe us.


At the top of the Magic Mile, we are greeted with a panorama of the Oregon Cascades. A 50-mile view in three directions obscured only by the smoke. To the south is Mt. Jefferson, another volcanic peak. To the north and nearly straight up is the jagged top of Hood and the remnants of its crater. We stop to take our traditional “End of the Earth” picture. This one will go on my office wall with the rest. The Palmer Glacier is divided into lanes. Each is a ski camp for training race teams who come here from across the country. We get to ride the lifts with kids of all ages and their parents who tag along and enjoy the experience. One lane is kept open for the public. We make 12 runs. My legs begin to complain but I don’t want it to end.

Our last run we notice that the butterflies are thicker than ever. By the thousands they cross the rocks and the snowfield heading up and across the mountain to the northeast. Wherever they are going, they are intent on getting there.

Getting back to the lodge is a little different. We ski past the top of the first lift and down a ravine filled with snow. In July this ravine snaked all the way to the parking lot but now is an eighth of a mile short. We come to a stop sign, take off our skis and then start to hike. It’s like hiking down a dry creek bed with piles of rock and boulders on either side. The experienced skiers brought hiking shoes in their backpacks. We just do it in our boots.



At the bottom we go straight to the parking lot. No time for the lodge, we heard about a brewpub down at Government Camp and we’re hungry. In July we toured the lodge, a monument to the depression-era craftsmen who were among the thousands of unemployed until the Works Progress Administration called them to a big job at 6000 feet. Their first task was to clear 14 feet of snow. Finished in only 15 months the lodge was dedicated by FDR himself in September 1937. A national historic landmark, Timberline Lodge was the exterior setting in the movie The Shining.

Down at Government Camp we ask directions to the brewpub. A local tells us the best food in town is a street vendor selling Gyros. “Just look for the ’99 Cent Hot Dogs’ sign,’” he says. We stand in line on the sidewalk with the shopkeepers, the tourists and the Artful dodgers. Janis Joplin is cooking Gyros on a Sunbeam electric griddle in an open-air booth attached to the village grocery store. The attitude is no extra charge. They’re the best I’ve ever tasted and then it's time to go. We turn the venerable Nissan to the east, down the mountain and home. Crazy!