Coffin Mountain (2nd hike of the 33)

The day started much later than I had planned. Therefore, my trip did not end where I had hoped. Coffin Mountain was a backup destination. Over 70 miles from home, my car got good marks for effort while climbing up into the local mountains. In the final stretch, as it chugged up National Forest Road 11 I did have to pull over twice to turn off the car for a few minutes. Perhaps this precaution was unnecessary, but I got nervous as the engine temperature slowly rose past 200 degrees, inching closer and closer to the red zone. The road was deserted. I freely drove at a speed within my comfort zone. After turning onto the appropriate gravel forest road and continuing up and up, I began to doubt myself. Hiking alone is dangerous, even more so for a woman. My cell phone had no reception. The road twisted along the edge of a cliff. Two cars could barely pass and there was no guardrail. Panic grabbed hold of me. For a short distance I intentionally drove on the wrong side of the road. Several times I contemplated turning back, trying to convince myself that I misunderstood the directions. The view was breathtaking, but the location was so isolated that I felt the earth could swallow me up and I would never be found.

Rounding the last cliff I made a pact with myself to drive two more miles. If the trailhead could not deign to appear, well I could turn back. There were other, safer places I could go. But just past that bend appeared a road to the left. As my car pulled in to the parking area I took a deep breath. Was I relieved or disappointed? I no longer remember. At the signboard I took a few deep breaths, pleased with the wonderfully intoxicating smell of mountain air. The sky, hazy in the distance, displayed a bright blue overhead. Puffy clouds drifted at a higher altitude, clinging to nearby Mt. Jefferson. The plants along the trail were wet with the remnants of a morning rain shower. The air was cool enough to encourage me to keep my sweatshirt on.

As many trails do, this one climbed up. Near the bottom third grew abundant blue lupine and what I thought were wild blueberries. I tried smelling the berries, but could not definitively identify them, and therefore chose to pass on the trailside snacks. The mountainside and the trees obscured some of the view. Instead, I focused on the wildflowers around me and the insects. If I remember anything auditory about this hike, it will be the constant buzzing of bees. Wherever they may have disappeared from, they seemed to be doing well up the mountain, and hard at work pollinating the wildflowers. Had been allergic, I might have thought about turning back simply on that account. Thankfully they left me alone. Another pervading sound was the clattering of grasshoppers. In all my years of city life, it never came to my attention that grasshoppers make noise. Yet, as they flew away from the danger of me stomping them to a pulp, they produced sharp, distinctive, clopping and clattering noises. Butterflies also filled the air, silently dancing through the flowers on wings of orange, yellow, and shimmery purple.

This trail had quite a few lessons to teach me. I was certain that it would not. Once someone told me that the hike up to Manoa Falls on Oahu was an enlightening, almost magical, experience. For me it was not, period. And on top of that, I left with a bloody gash in my leg. Nevertheless, many other hikes have helped me to think through problems and make hard decisions. This morning was a drive morning. An attempted escape. A don't-think-about-anything kind of morning. Once on that mountain I was faced with all of the things I was scared of. Despite an easy trail, my body was tired. I blamed the elevation, but it was deeper than that. Each time I stopped for water, I considered turning back. I tried to generate excuses. My car. Being alone. The time. No cell reception. Being female. My backpack was too heavy. I've been scared of grasshoppers since fourth grade. I dug in deep to find excuses, but something else pushed me up the mountain.

Shortly, I passed the only other hikers on their way down, a young girl, a man I presumed to be her father, and perhaps his father. Very friendly. They thought perhaps I was with the Forest Service as the usual person posted at the lookout point was absent. I reviewed myself mentally wondering what about me might tag me with Forest Service, and came up blank. The thought did intrigue me though, spending long periods of time alone out in the wilderness. It might be a good job for me, I considered. Once at the top, I realized it might also drive me mad. How does one come back down and reintegrate into society?

A while later I found a good place to sit and lunch. I had before me quite possibly the boldest panoramic ever at a mealtime (horribly squashed in my panoramic photo stitching). I felt a largess in sitting eye-to-eye among giants and also, infinitely small, lost like a pebble on the mountainside. Initial joy turned to heavy-heartedness. It too helped push me up that mountain. The trail switch-backed through meadows of wildflowers. Coming and going I caught glimpses of Mt. Jefferson to the northeast slowly emerging the clouds, like a reluctant sleeper from behind his blanket. As the path climbed up further only scattered trees dotted the hillside, some weather-beaten and decaying.

Before I was ready for the zig-zagging to end, the ground leveled out, trees reappeared and a sign reminded me that I was not welcome to spend the night. The trail cut through the trees carefully to a point on the cliff where a lookout tower, windows facing all directions sat closed off and unoccupied. I scurried about ever respectful of the drop off. I spied a wooden platform I suspected might serve as a helipad and scanned the horizon briefly for any movement. But there was none. I was alone. The sun warmed me as my thoughts sent shivers crawling across my skin. I checked out the northern vista, hidden on the trek up, and turned to scamper back down the mountain.

As with the last hike, I found directions and information for this hike in William L. Sullivan's 100 Hikes in the Central Oregon Cascades (3rd ed.)