I looked down and saw my heels hanging in midair. My toes were solidly sunk into the 50 degree angled snow slope that seemed to be the only way to get past the 200 foot high raging cascade and into the glacier-carved valley that was my destination. One lone thought elbowed its way past the concentration necessary to determine my next hand or foot move and consisted of this phrase,

"Well, this is getting a little silly.”

Aside from power lines, the area is unspoiled northwest scrub desert with regions of large sand dunes close to the river. In my family's time in Richland, none of us ever made the hour drive to the north side of the river, and this was going to be my father’s last contract here. We knew we would most likely not return in the foreseeable future, so we loaded up the car and made the trip. The river was swollen with snow melt and provided the somewhat confusing sight of hundreds of tumbleweeds swirling in an eddy sixty feet wide. We reached a rise where we could overlook the entire reach and count all nine reactors that had once refined plutonium. It was a rather odd, discordant sight. Human interaction that had polluted one area had, in effect, protected another. Only 10 percent of the reach was used for plutonium refinement. The other 90 percent was buffer in case anything went wrong. Most of the area was much as it had been in the 1940s. The cleanup goes on as a race against time. The tanks that held radioactive material have disintegrated and are slowly leaking waste toward the river.

The next day, Mom and I loaded up the car, said goodbye to my dad, and set off for Joseph Oregon. Joseph is a small town at the foot of the Wallowas and one of the three main entrances to the Eagle Cap Wilderness. It was also where we hoped to get information on which trailheads and forest service roads, if any, were snow free. My first choice was to go up the East Fork of the Lostine River, ascend over Carver Pass and return down the West Fork of the Lostine. The chance of the pass being open was slim, but even if I had to turn around and descend the East fork it would be a trip well worth taking. Second choice would be up Hurricane Creek, but that would mean 13 snow covered miles to get to the same point as 7 miles would get me going up the Lostine. The third choice would be to follow the Wallowa River south to Ice Lake, but I'd already done that in 2007.

Finding the Forest Service Ranger station closed, we resigned ourselves to driving from trailhead to trailhead to figure things out. We stopped at Terminal Gravity Brewery for lunch and my favorite IPA, and engaged a local who looked like he might have an idea about trail conditions. When he said that the Upper Lostine Road had finally been cleared two days prior I nearly hugged him, but I knew that randomly hugging strangers is a sure way to get shot in eastern Oregon, or at least dragged behind a horse. Instead, I simply thanked him, and Mom and I made for the trail.

It was 4:45 when she dropped me off at the trailhead which left about four and a half hours of hiking time before dark. Mom was going to spend a couple of nights at a local B&B while I was going to spend a couple of nights in a tent under the stars. Each of us thought we had the better plan. I set off feeling ambivalent about my chances of making it into the Lakes Basin by bedtime. The Lakes Basin, as its name implies, is an area in which several lakes are clustered together at the base of spectacular peaks. The area is also the most popular in the Wilderness. The idea of having such a place all to myself was almost overwhelming, and 7.3 miles seemed perfectly doable in four hours. Doubt crept in when I remembered that I had no information about the snow conditions, downed trees, or anything at all. I was going in blind.

A couple hundred of yards in, I encountered an older local couple walking back toward the parking lot. The way they moved comfortably through woods made me suspect they were locals. They eyed my large backpack suspiciously. “Out for a day hike?” the woman asked. “Nope, going to try to make it to the Lakes Basin.” I replied. “Wow, we only went as far as the first cascade. There were trees down and no maintenance on the trail. And there is still a ton of snow up there.” I turned around so they could see the snowshoes strapped to my pack. “Oh, OK. Good luck, I hope you make it.” I could hear the doubt in her voice.

I began climbing through an understory clear of snow, but blocked with the winter’s deadfall. As I climbed over trees on the trail sap from broken branches stuck to my clothes. The smell of evergreen followed me down the trail. The Lostine River had been in near flood for several days but was receding. The weather for the next couple of days called for mild to cool conditions, so I was hoping the water would level off or continue to drop as it had the day before. About 150 yards upstream of a waterfall I came to the first bridge, or at least where the first bridge once stood. The span had washed away, but someone left a note on the ruins informing hikers that a good log crossing was about 60 yards upstream. The log was about a foot wide and two feet above the water. Only its proximity to the cascade downstream gave me any pause, but the water was moving at a reasonable pace and had several large eddies just down stream before the falls began. I undid my pack belt, walked across and promptly forgot about it.

About a quarter of a mile later I ran into my first patch of snow, a quarter mile after that I put on my snowshoes. Shortly thereafter, the trail disappeared. I continued along where I thought the trail should be, when suddenly the path sloped upward drastically and what I thought was the rustling of wind through evergreens grew louder. I found myself at the base of a walled-in gorge with a massive waterfall forcing its way through. “Aw, shit.” I turned around and backtracked. I checked my GPS and did my best to find the switchbacks that were supposed to lead up to the valley and around the falls. About half an hour later, I sat in the snow, stumped. I could see where the trail had been, but then there was nothing. Thoroughly confused, I turned my gaze upslope. After a moment, I saw something way up high. It might be a continuation of the trail, but the intervening space consisted of “Aw… SHIT.” An avalanche had obliterated the trail. I couldn't tell how old the slide was, but there was NO WAY I was going to traverse an avalanche prone slope this late in the season. I thought that this might be the shortest pack trip I’d ever taken.

I wandered back toward the falls, hoping to at least get some pictures, but even here I was confounded. There was no way to get a clear shot without risking getting too close to the creek edge where the depth and stability of the snow was unknown. Frustrated, I started to walk back down. I looked to my left and saw a steep, clear, snow covered slope, maybe 60 feet high. Above that large evergreen trees grew tightly packed together.

Hmm, If I could make it up the slope, I could climb the rest of the way moving from tree trunk to tree. The slope was short and steep enough that the chances of an avalanche were slim. I climbed to the base of the slope, put on my crampons and started to slowly test the snow conditions. I kicked a foot in with my toes pointed at a downward thirty degree angle. That way when I put pressure on it, the snow would compress under it leaving my foot level with a solid platform to stand on. "So far, so good." I mumbled. I shortened my hiking poles to their minimum length and maintained three points of contact at all times. Slowly, I made my way up the slope. "Silly, silly silly.” The word had become my mantra.

At the top of the slope, I rested in a melted out area around a tree. Dirt, grass, and rocks peeked through the snow. I looked down slope at where I started. My footprints resembled those of some drunken bug whom had found a sudden urge to get to the top of the mountain. I turned around and started to climb. Each tree was both a handhold and a resting spot. An hour and 15 minutes passed before I reached the top of the falls.

Twice more I encountered waterfalls that required slow, careful negotiation. In addition, the trees here had melted out holes several feet in diameter and created narrow paths between them. Some of the pits were two to three feet deep. Falling in probably wouldn't hurt much but climbing out would not be fun, and that assumed that the walls didn't collapse and suffocate me before I had the chance. Both times I had encountered the waterfalls I had let myself wander too low next to the creek where I was boxed in by cliffs as I ascended the watershed. And both times I retreated downstream and made a steep climb up the banks to more manageable terrain. When I heard the third falls, I decided to remain high on the slope. It was going to get dark soon and the prospects for campsites were slim.

I reached a point on top of small hill but couldn't see a way to get much farther. Glancing about, I realized there was not a level spot in sight to set up my tent. I went to the base of a tree and found a hole that was too small for the tent, but large enough for me to lie down in and be protected from any wind that might come up. I laid down my closed cell mat, my down filled mat then my sleeping bag. Dinner consisted of dried fruit, wasabi covered almonds, and Gatorade. It was almost 10pm, I had been on the trail for five hours, and had made two and a half miles. I slept like a baby for five hours. I awoke at three am to a sky full of stars, grabbed my camera and tripod and pointed it up. My headlamp illuminated the tree I was under.

The avalanche caused the water to back up a bit and form a placid area on the creek, The first I'd seen since the trip started. I stopped and set up the tripod. Finally, the type of view that got me out here in the first place. The low sun illuminated the western side of the valley and the ice created a beautiful scalloped edge to the river. I spent several minutes just sitting and enjoying the view until I remembered how much time I'd lost. I started out again.

My expectations were that the route would be easier once I had reached the relatively gentle grade of the upper valley. What I hadn't counted on were the sun cups. Despite their happy name, I'm reasonably sure that if hell froze over it would be covered in sun cups. Melting snow, like many of us, is lazy given the choice. Water gathers in the lowest areas and helps speed the melting process. It creates little pools that help melt out the snow around it. They ranged anywhere from a few inches to about a foot and a half wide. The result is a snowfield that looks like either a honeycomb or an egg crate.

Snowshoes could bridge some of the cups and tended to keep my feet from getting wet as the bottom of the cups were often filled with slush. On the other hand, very careful foot placement was required. Once again snow conditions were going to slow me down. Any hope I'd had of reaching the Lakes Basin were shot. Instead I concentrated on just getting as far as I could.