Weekend: Detroit Lake Hike

The day after Christmas, Jason and I ate a hearty breakfast, packed a few snacks and water, tied our hiking boots onto our feet, and drove about 45 minutes down Highway 22 to Detroit Lake, Oregon.  There was some sun in the sky, it was relatively warm for December, and I was aching to go hiking again.

We got to the trailhead, passed around a green galvanized tube gate, and started up the mossy trail along Tumble Creek.  Uphill, we marched, stopping at the scenic spots where waterfalls white-washed themselves over rocky drops.  The trees blocked most of the sky, but enough light filtered through to show the vivid green of the ground we followed.  The trail was covered with moss, fallen leaves, and small boughs of evergreen that had been separated from the tree with wind-driven desire.  The ground was soft with it all; we stepped relatively carefully so as to not turn our ankles unsuspectedly in hidden holes.  Randomly we came across colored ribbon tied in the trees by the trail or staked markers almost unnoticeable from the overgrowth.

We walked into a patch of trail with new tree shoots springing up everywhere, some almost as tall as me, and we zig-zagged our way through.  Jason led, and I cautiously followed, aware of the sharp sting that ensued if the whip-like shoots shot back after Jason pushed through their maze.  All plant-life seemed to push closer in, and all signs of a trail disappeared.  We crept on.  The trail had taken us along a climbing ridge above the creek, so we following along in the same fashion, knowing we could at least find our way back if we never found the trail again.

Somewhere, later, after we had climbed over multiple soggy logs and under low-hanging branches, after finding the trail, losing the trail, and finding it again, we came to a picnic table (or, at least, what had been a picnic table at one time).  It edges were deteriorating in a way that seemed as though something with gnashing teeth was enjoying chewing it, splintering it away.  The table top and benches were covered in at least six inches of dense moist moss.  We decided not to sit.  We searched for a while, but couldn't find a trail again after that point.

The hike was eerie in a way.  I heard no brush of bushes as rabbits or rodents near the trail might have jumped away at our approach.  I don’t even recall hearing any birds.  I suppose Winter sometimes holds away its animals in the warmer pockets of earth and the sleepy tree-hollow hideaways. The sounds of the forest were occupied by the steps of our feet and the strong rushing sound of the creek.  I made a joke that Jason was a Sasquatch and we took a memento picture in front of a small waterfall.  Then we hiked our way down to the dry, mostly-drained Detroit Lake bed. 

I come to the trail for many different reasons.  I come to listen for the whisper of the air as it mixes with water pouring quickly over the gravel-and-boulder of the stream bottom.  I come to wonder at the height of the trees and the stability of roots.  I come to walk away from the static patterns of my mind and the torpid way I usually get from one place to another, moving foot after foot without purposeful placement.

I forget sometimes that the world is so much bigger than the four roads I drive from home, to work, to the grocery store.  I forget the feeling of the warmth found in the excitement of seeing a new view for the first time, or even a familiar view in a new season's light.

The trail is a reset button, a cleansing of old air from tired lungs, a necessary pleasure.