Eugenious

The nighthawks had settled in to roost on the gravelly shore of Fourmile Lake after completing their graceful evening mosquito slaughter. I was sure that the lake held enormous bullfrogs, burping loudly, but it was nighthawks, pulling out of daredevil dives, that boomed through our dinner. The birds earned the name “boom bat” in the South for these noises (I don’t know that they’re vocalizations) and for their crepuscular flying antics. After Wendy, Leslie, Chris, and Sylvan tucked into the tents, I sat leaning against piles of driftwood, Cassiopeia to my right and Mount McLoughlin over my left shoulder. Little dark waves faded into the dark gravel as they traveled toward me. The setting first-quarter moon brightened the edges of the cloud hovering over McLoughlin, at 9495 feet almost 4000 feet higher than Fourmile Lake. If I had to miss the Polhemus family reunion on Cape Cod, I’m glad I could spend the weekend here, especially with Leslie and Wendy, two of the most patient, generous toddler companions and friends we could find.

Leslie asked us to climb Mount McLoughlin and Mount St. Helens this summer. I immediately said, “yes,” with an especially enthusiastic response for McLoughlin, which is right off the Pacific Crest Trail in southern Oregon. In 2003, I had looked forward to climbing some of the Cascade peaks while on the Oregon PCT. That proved impossible within our timeframe, unfortunately, so I still hanker to slowly chip away at the list of volcanoes I want to stand on. McLoughlin is an easy climb —11 miles round-trip with 3900 feet of elevation gain — evidenced by the 15 cars in the parking lot by 9 a.m. on Sunday morning. If McLoughlin were situated in the central Oregon Cascades, we probably would have seen 100 people rather than 20, though. South Sister, on a sunny weekend, is a misery of too much company. But you will see someone you know, if that’s your thing.

Despite his mother’s ridiculous impatience, Sylvan walked for the first 2.5 miles and 1000 vertical feet of McLoughlin’s summit trail, with a short interlude of .25-.5 mile on Daddy’s back. While we were impressed with his endurance and rock-hopping ability, it wasn’t until we walked back down over that terrain that we really recognized Sylvan’s hiking prowess. And while he walked slowly, less than a mile an hour, folks who’d passed us on the way up still sat on the summit when the women in our party summited. I want to quietly encourage my little hiker, never pushing him to love what I love, so that perhaps he won’t rebel when he’s 14 and tell me that if he never hikes another step it will be too many.

When Sylvan’s naptime arrived, Chris shouldered the little big boy, carrying him up another few thousand feet — despite the fact that Chris had run 31 miles in a row eight days earlier. Then, 50 minutes before Leslie, Wendy, and I reached the summit, Chris and Sylvan headed down because the route included some boulder scrambling (Thanks for taking one for the team, Honey.). Above the boulders, the route along the ridge climbed through some slippery scree, never with frightening runout. We passed three dogs on their way down, all leading their separate parents down the slope. Ah, to have four legs for balance.

I signed the summit register, touched the tip-top rock, and scree-skied down, trying to make it down quickly because I understand the loud unhappiness of a nap-skipping toddler. I know that it’s easier to deal with that unhappiness in the company of another adult who will make faces, laugh uproariously, and generally mimic all of the toddler’s bad manners. Toddlers love that. Actually, ours does. Silliness almost always wins.

I told my sister that I’d climbed McLoughlin on her 28th birthday, and I said I was surprised at how strong I felt, like I really am bionic. I haven’t been running much, yet I hardly noticed that little climb. She said, “That’s what I’ve been waiting for. I keep asking you if you feel different since your surgery, and, finally, you do.”