“Multnomah Falls is pretty, but it’s just too mainstream.” I’ve heard some variation of this statement from several people. Indeed, this 620-foot waterfall is the most famous one in Oregon, and the well-paved paths leading to the top of this natural wonder make it a reachable climb for anyone who can hike two miles.
The falls have a special meaning to me: I visited them last summer, and Zach was the only one of the group who wanted to hike all the way to the top. Now, the two of us were determined to try the hike again, this time with a 5.6 loop thrown in.
The day dawned dismally. Clouds crowded the sky, casting a gray shadow over everything. I was grumpy because the previous day had been sunny and warm, which I thought would be better hiking weather. Nevertheless, Zach and I packed up a water bottle, some trail mix, and waterproof gear and headed out into the misty afternoon.
Soon it was raining, and it rained for our entire drive from Portland to Multnomah Falls. We headed straight toward the hike, took some obligatory photos by the base of the falls, then started up the set of 11 switchbacks that lead to the top of the mountain, where you can observe the opening of the falls from behind the safety of walls.
At first, it was raining. Then it began sleeting. Pellets of ice smacked against my jacket, and within a few minutes, my legs were drenched in icy rain. My socks were taking in water at an alarming rate. The rain pounded harder. My legs burned. I already felt exhausted, too exhausted to keep climbing, too exhausted to raise my head. The trail leveled out, dipped down a bit, and we trudged over soaked stone and tiptoed between puddles to reach the platform where Multnomah Falls plunges over the side of the cliff. In the summer it was a babbling brook that happened to tumble off a cliff— in winter it was a raging torrent, fueled by snow-melt and rainfall. Standing soaked to the knees in freezing rain, flinching as the ice pelted down, Zach and I looked at each other. “Do you want to go back?” he asked. I saw the hopeful look in his eyes, and I knew exactly what he wanted to do.
“Let’s go on,” I said.
He smiled. I giggled. Then, splashing straight through the ochre-colored puddles, we dashed toward the opening of the Wakheena Falls trail.
Underneath the shelter of Douglas firs, the rain didn’t beat as hard, although it was still sleeting with vigor. Zach and I clambered over the rocky trail, breathing in the beauty. I have a hard time putting the Oregon forest into words: it's raggedy, tangled, soaked in moss, rising into crests and columns and tumbling into white-gushing streams and waterfalls. The landscape stunned me with the sheer amount of green: stands of fir trees towering over us, ferns blanketing the ground, moss and lichen draped over the deciduous trees. We followed the brook upstream for a while, then the trail climbed away from it. Zach grabbed my arm and pointed toward the top of the treeline. I looked up, and saw something that made me gasp in wonder. It was snowing!
Upward we climbed, watching the sleet freeze away into swirling white flurries. The snow melted on contact, so the woods around us were still completely green, a panorama of verdant springtime even as a cheerful blizzard blasted its way through.
We took a side trail that would lead us to an elevation of 2400 feet. In the gaps between trees, we saw the Columbia River far beneath us, glimmering pale silver through the mist that held close on every side. Still we climbed more, and then we saw a place where the muddy trail abruptly changed to snow. The firs were dusted in it, gleaming like a fairy-tale land. Zach and I dashed forward. Soon we left the world of springtime behind: we were immersed in winter, a glowing, cool-aired winter where all the world was black and white, draped in snow, shimmering like a dream. We skirted a ridge and the draft carried the drifting snow upward as we caught glimpses of the evergreen hills beneath us. Except for the distant sound of rushing water and the occasional dripping sound of snow, the woods were completely silent. I felt that I had fallen into the middle of Narnia.
Zach and I soon ditched our original wimpy 5.6-mile plan— we diverged onto a narrow trail that Zach thought would lead to a lookout he’d visited before, though we had no idea how far it would take us. The elevation drop was steep, so soon I was bounding down the trail like a deer, Zach running after me and yelping when I forgot to hold the tree branches clear of him. The woods were alive with snow, with the rustlings of birds and the sparkle of ice, with water droplets frozen on the tips of moss, with blankets of white spilling over the carpet of ferns. I felt alive, my face flushed, my legs throbbing, my feet sloshing loudly with frigid water.
All at once, the snow ended. The trail turned back to mud, lined with red pine needles and green moss. The trees lost their snowy flourish. Zach and I plunged back into the world of a cold, wet spring.
Sure enough, the trail led us to Angels Rest, a huge outcropping of tree-covered rock that juts out from the mountains, giving the determined hiker an almost-360 view of the Columbia River Gorge. Behind us, the rounded tops of the mountains glimmered with snowy trees. To our right, the mountains fell away in verdant color, contrasted with the blue of the river. The mountains across the gorge, in Washington, were crowned with silver pillows of cloud. And to our left, I saw the majesty of Oregon in vivid shades of silver-gray.
The clouds had cleared in one spot to a thin veil, and the sun pierced through it, pouring ethereal beams of light onto the river. The Columbia glowed silver, racing backward toward the horizon like the bastions of a mountain. The breath rushed from my lungs. I stared, I swallowed, and I fell in love. The view on a sunny day would have been beautiful. The view on a cloudy day was a masterpiece of everything that makes Oregon great.
Our hike ended up being well over ten miles, and my legs were sore for three days afterward. It was a perfect day.
~~~
Portland, as I said, tends to embrace this. The sign KEEP PORTLAND WEIRD displays the city’s unofficial slogan, and the locals do their best to obey it. White people destroy their hair to make dreadlocks. Clothes are patchwork. Nobody knows the concept of "natural hair color." Instruments, cigarettes, plaid flannel and strip clubs abound. The homeless people wear stylish clothes. Every person I breeze by, every strange building and coffee shop I pass, drills the mantra into my head: I do not belong here. I may visit, I may enjoy, but I am not part of the city. I am not a cell in the living body that is Portland. I am okay with this, especially since I’m not moving here (at least, for the moment). It’s a pretty cool place, but I won’t miss the city itself.
Rest
