Elizabeth's First Hike

or

Why Marguerite tries to forget the South Sister

There is a family picture, you know the one, it hangs on the wall directly in your daily path. You walk by it 20 times a day. But, like all other furniture, you just don’t pay attention to it anymore – a tree in the forest. There are a lot of those pictures, right? All right there on the wall, all begging to be remembered. Each one has a story, a good story, sometimes sad, sometimes funny, sometimes just a paragraph that says, “Here are grandma and grandpa. They look old, don’t they? Shoot, they were my age when that picture was taken. Do I look that old now?” and so on.

Yep, a picture paints a bunch of words. And you are going to get about 4,000 of them out of me right now because I just noticed a picture hanging on the wall, on this Mother’s Day, which seems rather fitting. It is a picture I suspect Marguerite would prefer stay just the way it is – fading into the woodwork – and Elizabeth would likely vote the same if she remembered. But she doesn’t, so I will do the remembering for her…

What could possibly go wrong, I pondered?

Not being much of a car-camping guy, preferring wilderness and out-of-the way trails to picnic tables and porta-potties, it occurred to me that we could backpack into Moraine Lake, maybe a third – the easy third, I might add – of the way up the 10,000 feet South Sister, one of the snow-capped peaks in Oregon’s Cascade Range. We were going with Doug and Paula, Peace Corps friends. I figured Marguerite could carry Elizabeth (she only weighed 15 pounds, if that!) on her back, I could carry the bulk of our gear, and I could ask Doug to carry the dregs. It was only four miles in and less than 2000 feet gradual elevation gain. Yes, Elizabeth was only seven months old – Marguerite’s only marginally valid point of contention – but other than that, again, what could possibly go wrong? I broached the subject with Marguerite.

We car-camped at Devil’s Lake Campground.

As was our way in those days, what with diapers and all the paraphernalia that goes with having a baby, we arrived at Devil’s Lake late, nearly dark. Doug and Paula were already there, so had a good camping spot picked out for us. We threw up our tent and set to making dinner. As I recall, Marguerite and Paula were cooking, and Doug and I were supervising – I recall beer somehow being involved…but it was good beer. (Before I go any further, now don’t go and get your knickers in a twist on me; no one was drunk, and we were not negligent parents; it was just really nice to be with friends and our baby girl that could just about sit up all by herself. The moment called for a beer. No, Elizabeth was still under the legal drinking age, so she didn’t get any, unless it was through Marguerite? I wonder how that works?) Elizabeth could not walk, stand or otherwise do much of anything except nurse, poop, pee, cry, and roll around – you know the drill. Elizabeth was one of those babies that rolled her head back and forth so much while lying on her back that it wore her dark hair off in a straight line pattern from one ear, going around the back of her head, to the other ear. Yes, racing stripes come to mind. I have pictures.

Elizabeth could also sit by herself…sort of.

Marguerite had plopped Elizabeth on the picnic table between Doug and me, apparently thinking one of us (perhaps even both of us) would watch her – I suspect, being the dad and all that other stuff that comes with the job, I was the primary “watching” candidate. Perhaps, if Marguerite had plopped her a tad bit closer to me than to Doug it would have been a bit more obvious. Elizabeth wobble-sat at the edge of the picnic table, watching the goings on.

You’ve seen a slinky roll down a set of steps before, right? Head over heels; rather fascinating, downright hypnotizing to watch. Given the right circumstances – pretty much the exact circumstances described herein – a child can be very much like a slinky.

Yep, my little girl leaned heavily to one side – the wrong side – kept on going, rolled in mid-air, landed flush on her back on the picnic table bench seat, rolled off that, flipped in midair and landed on her stomach on the ground between Doug’s and my feet – just like a slinky! The difference being that a slinky doesn’t “scream its beak off” – our phrase for “Elizabeth wants mommy” – when it finishes its descent of the steps.

I looked at Doug; he looked at me. “Well, pick her up!” Marguerite barked, I suspected at me. Again, probably my job. I picked Elizabeth up, dusted her off and looked for anomalies. She was so bulked up with all those heavy clothes Marguerite had piled on her to fight the chill that there was no way she could be too hurt; probably why she fell off the table in the first place. I kept that to myself.

We discovered early that if any of our kids were really hurt, they continued to scream their beaks off beyond what one might consider a reasonable time: less than a minute (minor), not a big deal, just trying to get mom’s attention; one minute to a couple of minutes (moderate), hmm, something amiss, better check her out; greater than a couple of minutes (major), she is either actually hurt, is hungry, or has a nasty diaper and wants her mommy to change her, or something having to do with that hunger. Many things come to my mind, to include those gawd-awful nasty diapers Marguerite made me change – how the heck do I get THAT out of THERE?

That night, the first we had ever camped with Elizabeth, went surprisingly well (except for the slinky fiasco). She slept between us, waking us every three hours to nurse and have her diaper changed – no “probably” to it; THAT (diaper changing) was my job. This is where Marguerite doesn’t remember the story the same way: While it might have been his job, he was a slacker and should have been fired! Now Marguerite, no need to air our family squabbles in this forum…

We woke early to Elizabeth’s “I’m hungry and need my diaper changed” cry. I changed her diaper, handed her to Marguerite, she (Elizabeth) pooped, and I changed her again. I could never figure that out either; why not just let her nurse in her dirty diaper and then change her? Save diapers that way. But the girls didn’t seem to appreciate my suggestion. In fact, an “atta-boy” or “atta-daddy” from either of them was (and still is) a rare occasion. I got one last week, but danged if I can remember why. Should have written it down.

That morning, Marguerite, Doug and Paula cooked breakfast. I was the designated Elizabeth watcher: “She is your job.” See, that’s all it took, a clear division of labor, and the slinky fiasco of Devil’s Lake campground would likely never have happened. We ate, cleaned up, packed our day-hiking gear (plus about 100 diapers, two tubs of diapy-wipes – thank god for diapy-wipes, baby backpack to carry the baby in, extra baby clothes, and an array of other stuff – I only have 4000 words). We were on the trail early, bound for Moraine Lake, the clear, sparkling pool marking the main trail and last watering hole before the ascent of the South Sister.

Our hike to Moraine Lake went without a hitch. Not once did we have to stop for a crying baby; we were young and in good shape so the hike was easy; the weather for climbing was perfect: cool but not cold, clear but for picturesque fluffy clouds floating about the mountain top, just like in those picture books we read to our children at bedtime; an astounding array of tough little flowers dotting the sand and rocks along the trail; birds and other critters investigating, bobbing about, squawking and then moving on, I guess figuring we were okay as long as we didn’t dawdle; we trekked along, through deep cedar- and pine-scented forest that gave way to sandy, rocky scree. All was right with the world.

And that is when Paula took the picture attached to this story; one of my favorite pictures ever. I guess that is why it has a place of honor on our daily trek through our home.

We could have stopped there, turned around, gone back to Devil’s Lake, fished, played with our baby girl, eaten a good dinner, talked with friends into the night, awoken the next morning refreshed from a simple adventure into the Deschutes Wilderness, and then driven back to Portland invigorated and ready to continue our quarrel with the real world. But the trudging was good, so we trudged on.

We arrived at Moraine Lake, far enough into the wilderness and enough “up” to discourage most folks from making the journey, and found ourselves the sole human inhabitants of the lake – awesome! First things first, I changed Elizabeth’s diaper. (Interestingly: Gary and I once went backpacking where it was required that you carry out your waste – yes, THE waste. We had never done that before, opting to bury it. It was just plain down weird to us to haul that out! After one “potty” stop, we resumed our hike, Gary in the lead. I stopped, “Gary, did you seal that thing right before you put it in your backpack? I’m catching a whiff of something back here.” Too much information? I had never carried waste like that out before in all my backpacking adventures. But wait! Writing this, I realize I had: Elizabeth’s diapers and all the goodness that goes with them – nasty. Chewing up the 4000 words; move along.)

We had our lunch while Elizabeth lay on a blankie, rolling her head from side to side to get a view of all her new surroundings. Marguerite tried to nurse her. “Nope! Not gonna happen mom; I’m a bit involved looking at all this new stuff.” That was okay, we would try again later – and yes, I am aware of how I keep saying “we” for stuff like this. As the diaper changer, I want credit too.

We took Elizabeth to the water’s edge, sat her up, and simply “hung out.” There was little more we could do, what with a baby along for the ride. That was okay: good company, full bellies and beautiful views; we really didn’t need much more.

With the lake and mountain in the background, Marguerite took a picture of Elizabeth and me sitting by the lake’s edge. Elizabeth was sitting rather nicely all by herself, I might add, don’t you think? And right after taking that picture (less than a second and faster than I could shoot my hand out to rescue her), Elizabeth went on another of those strong leans, similar to the one on the picnic table the night before, but this time she wobbled, faked a sideways fall and then fell forward. Babies sure are flexible, aren’t they? Her head fell forward between her outstretched legs and plunked down right on a bunch of stone-embedded grass. One, two, three: BEAK SCREAMING OFF time!

We scrambled, picked her up, scraped the rocks and dust from her face, searching for anything serious – nothing. She stopped crying in less than a minute (minor). Marguerite took this opportunity to comfort our little darling by nursing her. Surely, by now, she would be ready to nurse. They excused themselves and Doug, Paula and I continued our appreciation of the surreal environs. The girls returned just a few moments later, Marguerite peered at me, “Nothing. She won’t nurse.” She gave me one of those looks, the kind that we dads inherently understand when mom and baby are not getting along… as if we can do something about it, or even better, this is all YOUR (the dad’s) fault. You know, Marguerite, that baby is half you, you know… I kept that one to myself too – I was a secretive kind of guy back then. In this case the look was the “if this baby doesn’t nurse soon I’m going to explode” look. She wasn’t being figurative.

I just didn’t know what to do about that; I couldn’t nurse her, and we didn’t have a bottle full of expressed milk – that’s another story, right dads?

We figured Elizabeth didn’t want to nurse because she was distracted looking around at all the neat stuff. Perhaps my girls needed some real alone time. “How about walking to the other side of the lake and try there,” I suggested. I saw that rare look in Marguerite’s eyes that she gets when I actually have a good idea. Ten minutes later I snapped the picture of my girls on the other side of the lake. You can’t really see them, but if you could see sound waves, then perhaps…

I propose that Moraine Lake be renamed to “Echo” Lake. Our baby girl “echoed” to us, and anyone within at least a mile of the lake, her thorough dissatisfaction with her mother sticking a boob in her face when she was trying to enjoy the sights. But Marguerite fought valiantly and after about 20 minutes (greater than two minutes: major) of crying and fighting (there is no better word), my girls came to some kind of accord: Elizabeth drank enough to keep her mother from “exploding” and Marguerite…well, I am not sure what Marguerite chipped in to this agreement, perhaps her dignity? But my girls were soon back on our side of the lake, mostly smiles and ready for the next adventure.

We sat around the lake shore a bit longer – a tranquil herd of gazelle, lazing about, unaware of the swarm of crocodiles submerged at the shoreline looking for an easy meal of unwary ungulate – took a few pictures, nibbled cheese, sipped high-altitude wine and, for the most part, enjoyed our little girl’s musings. We didn’t really notice the mountain that much; life revolved around our daughter completely: exploding boobs; poopy diapers; nighttime feedings; fatigue impossible to ever recover from; falls; scrapes; screaming; crying – sometimes Elizabeth screamed and cried too; reading picture book after picture book after picture book (ad-nauseam); cleaning up those little puke bombs that just come out of nowhere – how could she throw that much stuff up? She didn’t even eat that much. And then smile and coo at me like it was nothing; baths in the kitchen sink; ripped from much-needed sleep by our little banshee wailing one room over; squeaky toys (ad-nauseam); binkies (thank god for binkies, I might add); washing out diapers in the toilet (O My Gawd! Can’t we just use disposables?); first smiles; baby giggling (one of the sweetest sounds there is); all that good stuff that comes all packaged up for you when you order “one baby to go please”…

…and the soft, warm love that makes it all right – so very, very right.  

It was soon time to get back to Devil’s Lake. Doug and I still had to go out and do battle with the great trout, kill it, and tote it home for our women to cook. Someone has to sacrifice themselves for the good of the clan, may as well be the menfolk, always has been, likely always will be.

We packed up and set out on the trail. Doug led, then came Paula, Marguerite and then me with our little caboose on my back. We chose to go a slightly different route from the one we ascended. The new one was flatter but longer and took us through the Wickiup Plain, a high, broad meadow that affords beautiful views of the Sisters, Mt. Bachelor, Broken Top mountains, a bunch of other cool outdoor stuff – a bunch of picture ops. We stopped often, oohing and awing at the sights. Full-bellied and worn out from her adventures, Elizabeth dozed.

As was, is and always will be my way, I figured I might be able to do a bit of fishing at Moraine Lake – “there’s a mud puddle? Any fish in it?” Marguerite’s job was to carry my fishing gear, complete with the tip of the compact rod poking out of the top of her daypack, about at head – my head – level.

We moseyed down the mountain, not in a hurry, stopping often, taking in the many sights of a snow-capped mountain environ. There are a bunch of them; so many, in fact, that four people might admire four different things looking in four different directions at the same time, not necessarily paying attention to the person in front of them when one – in this case, the leader – decides to stop and ooh and aw at something. You remember the Three Stooges, right? Walking along, being all “stoogie” when one, usually Moe, stopped, Larry conked his head into Moe and then Curly conked into Larry? Yeah, that’s about the way it went down for us. But for added entertainment, when it came to my time to conk into Marguerite’s head, I abruptly discovered that the fishing rod tip was not at head level, but at nose – my nose – level.

When something jams into your nose your initial reaction is to jerk your head back…quickly! If there is a sleeping baby riding along on your back, you tend to, well…smack the back of your head into said sleeping baby’s forehead. And if you are said sleeping baby, then you commence to “scream your beak off.” Can’t say that I blame you.

With the swiftness of, well, a mother hearing her baby crying in pain, Marguerite adeptly pulled Elizabeth out of the backpack and did what moms magically do: make it better – Moms have a way, don’t they? Perhaps babies come with a manual after all: the mom manual; sometimes it’s just really hard to read. (Wow! That’s a telling statement!)

It took a few minutes (major) for the crying to subside and a few more minutes for the bleeding, whining and mewling to work its way out of me. Elizabeth suffered a red bump on her forehead that faded by the time we got to the campsite, and I suffered the indignity of walking back to camp with a tissue stuffed up my nose.

At camp, Marguerite nursed Elizabeth and put her down in our tent, Doug and I went fishing and caught several trout, cleaned them and presented them to the womenfolk, who were lounging about on lawn chairs drinking wine, to cook. They told us to “cook your own food.” I just can’t comment on that…

Doug got the frying pan, oil and whatnot that goes with frying up a mess of trout; I got the beers. We ate, changed a diaper and had one more feeding (and changed the post-feeding diaper), night settled in and so did we. Marguerite covered Elizabeth with a flap of her sleeping bag and pulled her close. I did the same to the two of them, creating a snug cocoon over our small family. And, you know, I think I will stop there; it doesn’t get much better than that, does it?

Several years later I backpacked to Moraine Lake with the intent of summiting the South Sister. I had done it before – it really is just a long, hard hike, up and up and up, requiring no technical climbing other than watching the weather. This time I had three munchkins in tow: Elizabeth (13), Gary (10) and Ben (8). We camped at Moraine Lake for the night and the next morning we climbed the remaining 5,000 feet to the summit of the South Sister.

I have done a lot of cool things, a lot of adventures, but I think, in retrospect, there are few cooler than standing on the summit of that mountain with my little ones, enjoying the beauty of the Cascade Range, and the three miracles that went with it.

Yep, good memories – a picture worth a lifetime of words.

Notes

And there was that other thing that Marguerite reminded me about: fish guts somehow got all over Marguerite’s sleeping bag.  Ahh…good memories indeed…

I gave myself 4000 words to tell this story. I see that I am a bit short of that. Perhaps I should go back and talk more about poopy diapers to fill in my word count…nah…