An Adventure in Preparation

This is the beginning of the newest column in The Crescent that will feature stories from our reporters, editors, and submissions from students. The theme of this column is a crazy story from your life at Fox. This article is for that story that you will tell to your kids, and coworkers and at every dinner party for the rest of your life. The kind of story that only happens in college.

Growing up in rural Oregon, you come to appreciate nature. You have to, or you come to appreciate drugs. Those were basically the two options for people at my high school. Luckily, I came to appreciate nature early on and was able to participate in activities like cross-country, hiking and backpacking. Backpacking has always been my favorite, so for the last few years I have taken off into the Columbia River Gorge as often as I have been able to, and have slept under the beautiful Oregon stars.

One fine weekend early this September I took off for the weekend with my buddy Zach for a relaxing weekend on Larch Mountain. Those who know the trails in the gorge would tell you that there are two main trails to get to Larch Mountain: the first is the Oneonta Gorge trail which takes you by stunning ravine that has been carved out of the cascades and then curves Southwest back towards Portland, and the second takes you directly up through Multnomah Falls, one of the most popular tourist spots in the state.

The Oneonta Gorge Trail was closed this particular weekend because a landslide had covered up part of the trail so we were forced to hike up through the tourist-infested trail of Multnomah Falls. During this hike I was often reminded of the bumper sticker “why do they call it tourist season if you can’t shoot ‘em?”

We eventually got to the top of the falls, which would mark the beginning of the enjoyable section of the trail. It was an absolutely gorgeous day as we hiked and photographed the scenery. In fact, the only problem we had was occasionally the trail would explode with butterflies in front of us and we had to brush the little creatures out of our hair.
After a while, we decided to stop hiking for the night because there was no official camp sight and we knew we would need to have a place with moving water. The spot we chose was nestled between a dry creek bed, and a barely flowing stream. We set up our camp for the night. We hadn’t brought tents or any spare clothes for that matter because it was beautifully clear and we wanted to pack as light as possible if we were to climb the mountain.
We set out our sleeping bags and mats, ate some rehydrated dinner, read a little bit, and hung out clothes, boots and sacks up to air out before hitting the sack. We were in great spirits and full of energy; little did we know that this would be the end of those feelings on this trip.
At about three in the morning I felt a few tiny droplets of water hit my face. I was sleeping enough to not feel compelled to do much about it, so I rolled over. When I woke up next, the back of my head was pretty wet, so I pulled my bivy sack over my head and went back to sleep. I finally awoke for the last time at about seven the next morning. Our camp sight was a lake. The dry creek bed I had mentioned was no longer dry, on the contrary, it was now just a regular creek. The stream to the other side of us was quickly approaching riverhood, and all of our clothes, boots and packs were filled with water.
As I surveyed the damage, I grabbed my pack and turned it out to find that about three liters of water had accumulated over night. Zach had made his bag and mat into a sort of teepee under a tree to conserve heat; his stuff was in no better condition.
“This sucks.” I said flatly. “Let’s just leave. Skip breakfast, skip the mountain, let’s just leave.”
I then looked at my pile of clothes on the ground. My Carhart pants were soaked, and as any Alaskan will tell you, wet cotton kills, not to mention the risk of a mean diaper rash (which is a misleadingly infantile name for the amount of pain that causes). I threw on my jacket and boots and strapped my waterlogged pants to my pack. We packed our whole camp up in about ten minutes and headed right back down the direction we came.
It was about five miles later, at the top of the Multnomah Falls trail, that I remembered how popular Multnomah Falls was. Here I was, hiking down one of the most visited (and photographed) places in Oregon in my boxers, looking like a drowned rat. I knew that if I was going to get diaper rash anywhere though, it would be on this final mile down the falls. The steepness of the trail and speed from the momentum of our packs would basically turn my inner thighs into the brakes on a your dad’s car he let you borrow for your first date. I knew the pain would be worse than any amount of embarrassment suffered at the hands of any amount of tourists, so I tightened up my waste strap on my pack and headed down the trail.
Yes, it was about as embarrassing as you think it was. On the other hand, it was fun to see the faces change on the old people as I shuffled down the trail. One man stopped me, laughing, he said he knew exactly what was happening. When we finally got to the bottom, we threw our packs in the back of Zach’s truck and took off back for school, only able to laugh at our ridiculous lack of preparation.